Storm Doris- where did that come from?

Storm Doris- where did that come from?

I know what you're thinking. Now where did that Storm Doris come from? It must have come from the Atlantic or perhaps blown furiously across the frozen wastes of Russia? There will come a time when perhaps I will stop talking about the weather but sadly the weather has successfully dictated and determined our moods since the beginning of time so why stop now?

So then Storm Doris. It's hard to know why we're all being blown off our feet and swept off the pavement by those blustery, whistling, howling winds which seem to have come from somewhere even if most of us haven't a clue where. It seems to be though that the months of the year have got this one slightly wrong. Don't we normally get these tempests in March hence March winds? Still I expect it'll quieten down eventually. It normally does.

We all stepped outside our homes and perhaps dreaded a repetition of October 1987 when a certain BBC weatherman called Michael Fish confidently re-assured Britain that they'd nothing to worry about because the rumoured storm that was on its way to the leafy suburbs and the big cities would miss us by several country miles and a couple of wobbling walls or fences. We had nothing to concern ourselves and when we'd awake the following morning everything would be exactly where it was before. We all know what happened next.

But here we are in Manor House and the only sound I can hear is uncannily reminiscent of one of those scary ghost stories they used to tell us on wild, windy nights. The wind is just crying, weeping, howling, moaning and groaning so movingly and, it has to be said, quite piteously. It feels as though at any moment our cupboards and wardrobes will start moving around like burglars callously ransacking your living room, shifting uneasily towards the door, then shrieking and wailing in extreme pain.

The fact is that Storm Doris is battering our sea defences, crashing aggressively against coastal walls and then buffeting anything in its way with breathtaking ferocity. In Britain we normally get the lot during the winter, the whole meteorological spectrum ranging from flooding, freezing, dripping, drizzling, rain, snow, frogs, locusts and now wind. And yet how we Brits brave our way through it all stoically and defiantly determined to venture out with dancing umbrellas and an intrepid soul.

Now the wind is with us and it feels as if at any moment that the house in the opening scene of the Wizard of Oz will come flying over us here in Manor House. Sadly Judy Garland is no longer here to grace us with her sweet voice but for now we'll just have to board up our homes, batten down the hatches and hope that by tomorrow morning we'll all be basking in a sweltering heatwave with temperatures soaring into the 90s.

In Britain we should be used to these gusting, blustery blasts that, at the moment, seem to be shouting protestingly and almost rebelliously. You can almost sympathise with their predicament because when the winds blow with a vengeance most of us just complain and wish that summer were here with all her decorative rays of sun to warm our bodies.

Regrettably- for the moment at least- the winds are picking up, fury and indignation echoing across Manor House. I'm still wearing my winter pullover and the squirrels outside are probably desperate for a warm bed for the night. I feel sure though that Storm Doris will be a storm in a teacup and those frightening things that go bump in the night will just seem like some minor disturbance in the history of British weather.

Exactly 30 years ago I woke up on that fated October morning and found the world had almost come to an end. Further down our road. my dad's poor, broken car had been severely dented and damaged. The roof of the car was clinging on for dear life and all around was chaos. The brick wall at the end of the road had been toppled to the ground almost cruelly. It may well have hit my dad's car by complete accident but none of us knew whether this was the case or not. It did though come crashing to the pavement with a huge thud and the whole day was shaped by one tempestuous event that the good old fashioned British weather had once again brought us quite vocally.

And so it is that Storm Doris will blow herself to a natural standstill before yet another gender influenced weather front. Will we get Thunderstorm Ernie followed by Hailstones Flora or just windy old Gordon? We'll wake up tomorrow and what seemed like the deafening noises of today will fade away rather like the ghosts that used to inhabit our imagination. Keep calm everybody. The winds of March may never materialise. We have to believe. We must hope.