Storm Babet may have had an affable-sounding name, but she turned oot to be truly affa.
My heart goes out to the poor residents, particularly in Brechin, whose homes were inundated, in spite of nearby flood barriers. The good news is that Stoney’s prevention scheme seemed to work well.
Regular readers know I dread every gale since my last gardener told me my backie acts like a wind tunnel, at the end of about 10 hugely exposed gardens to the east. Each time the wind blas, something crashes doon – usually my fence. However, since the same weather-wise gardener and his loon built a double-sided, super-strong one last year, I’ve been confident it would withstand the worst the winds could whoosh.
However, Thursday morning, as the gusts got up, I into a panic. Texted an SOS to my new gardener to please come to demolish my ancient but once much-loved trampoline, lest it flee aff like something oot o’ The Wizard of Oz. Not a hope in hell he’d pay ony heed, I reckoned, given the rain was dingin’ doon. But, yes, around noon, the wee mannie dutifully arrived and, while getting utterly sodden, did the deed. Thanks, min.
Packed my garden chairs in a sheltered corner. Started to feel confident I’d weather the storm. No crashing sounds overnight but, around 7.30am, a text from my neighbour that his fence – between our gardens, which has always held tight – had two smashed panels. And all my chairs blown on to their backs. Losh, that trampoline might have ended up in Clatt. Meanwhile, in my quine’s garden nae mair than a mile up the road, not even a football had been blown out of place. Queer.
Good luck didn’t last
By Saturday night, my stress had subsided. Switched on my most precious possession, the dishwasher, packed with two days of clarty dishes, and settled doon to watch telly. But hud on. Nothing happening on the washer but a light saying: Check Water.
Oh, please, no. I haven’t washed a dish since the 1970s. Canna stick ‘em.
Opened up to find water swillin’ aboot from last wash and filter in the middle bust. I wisnae that surprised. I’ve had that Bosch since 2005. That’s 18 years of the most perfectly clean and sparkling dishes, including caked-in-gungey-gads pots.
Aghast at the prospect of doin’ it a’ by hand, I online to John Lewis when everyone else was watchin’ Strictly. While my credit card danced a perfect cha-cha-cha, I ordered a replacement Bosch.
Come Sunday, as the rain kept dingin’, deep in conversation with a pal about a’ my tribulations. Sez she: “I’ve got a puddle on my flat roof, but at least there’s no sign of a leak anywhere.” Here’s me: “Me neither, thanks-be. Water can cause sic a mess.”
At the end of the long call, havin’ hud in a tiddle, I tootled fast-like to the lavvie to relieve masellie. But relief was there none. The floor roon the bathroom window was soaked thanks to an ever-increasing drip from the wood above the window. I scraiked: “Fit next?” Then I thought of those poor folk fae in Brechin – and got a’thing back into perspective.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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