Andy Richardson: The End of the World is Nigh as it gets a bit windy outside
We returned to a scene of utter devastation. Where once there had been a reasonably untidy garden, now there was carnage. Four 6ft fence panels had been blown by Storm Ciara out of the concrete fence posts that had held them secure for six long years. And I’m pretty sure the wheelie bin had been blown by at least a centimetre from its moorings. Three leaves had been blown from a tree. The question was: could we survive?
Across the nation, Storm Ciara had caused similar scenes of disquiet. In Rotherham, a pot plant had been blown from a window ledge onto wooden decking. It had suffered a hairline crack. Would its owners by able to save the thyme plant within? In Truro, a plastic bag had blown across the road, causing horrified onlookers to gawp for two seconds. One man even took a video on his Samsung and posted it to Twitter. And in Basildon, in scenes reminiscent of the really windy scene from Wizard Of Oz where a cyclone blows through Kansas, scoops up poor Toto and catapults him 7,000ft into the air – or have I made that bit up? – a trampoline had been scooped up by Ciara’s storm force winds and blown as far as Billericay, where it had landed on an unsuspecting gardener’s allotment. Gadzooks. Kerpow. Splat.
Back at Planet Back Garden, I wasted no time in rushing straight past the fence. The wind had quietened and repairs were feasible, but why bother fixing a fence on a Sunday. It’s a day of rest. There were computer games to play, crisps to eat and besides, I don’t really like the neighbours anyway. Let them look at my putting green-smart lawn for as long as they damn well like. Fixing the fence can wait for another week, or five.
Worse was to come, however. Storm Ciara buffeted my hair. Yes, buffeted. Locks that were once auburn – fine, light ginger – and have long since become silver – fine, grey – were blasted like sand across the Sahara. By the time I made it to the back door, I resembled Emmett Lathrop, the mad professor from Back To The Future. I thought about dialling 111 and talking to the emergency NHS line. But then I thought better of it. What if Storm Ciara had blown the Coronavirus Virus from Brighton to Shrewsbury and I was infected? What if I was at risk of becoming a super-spreader? Would I need to go into quarantine for 14 days, avoiding all human contact, eating take-away deliveries, watching more movies than Hollywood makes in a year and not going to work? Frankly, it sounded great.
Reality kicked in and I thought about asking She Who Must Be Obeyed whether she could straighten out my hair. The fence could wait. And then I remembered what happened the last time she straightened out my hair. I’d bought a pair of clippers from Amazon – though other online retailers are available – and hoped she might treat me like a barber with a favourite client, rather than like a vet with a sick horse.
“Don’t worry,” she dissembled. “I’ve done this before, you’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t. When the final clippings had fallen to the floor, I stood up, looked in the mirror and gasped. She had hacked my Emmett Lathrop and turned me into a badly jagged skinhead. On the top of my head was an inverse Mohican, where she’d applied the clippers too hard, or used the wrong setting to create what looked like a landing strip for a model aeroplane. I did the only thing possible in the circumstances, giving myself a buzz cut so that all of my hair was as short as the landing strip. We spoke, three days later, exchanging the words “sorry” and “well, it was funny”. The clippers have mysteriously disappeared. I think that’s for the best.
To be fair, as bad hair days go, it wasn’t the worst. I once managed to angle grind my way through a gas pipe and a water pipe in a house in Bridgnorth. On. The. Same. Day. I’d decided to carry out some DIY repairs and invested in an angle grinder so that I could cut a gash through the floor. I can’t remember why. Halfway through, there was a loud pssstt sound, as I severed a gas pipe. The fire brigade arrived on blue lights and sorted it all out. In for a penny, in for a pound: I decided to continue. Moments later, I went through a nearby water pipe, sending a vertical fountain gushing against the ceiling, flooding the house and giving myself a George Berry hairstyle in the process.
Back in the garden, the fence panels lay on the grass. They’ll probably be there for some time as worse is to come. Storm Dennis The Menace will be arriving this weekend. Pray for me.
