Hurricane Darwin is pounding us.
Take that, ya bastards! I’ll soon find out who’s the fittest.
I wandered into town today and, taking careful heed of the weather warnings, I put the old Bockmobile in a multi-storey car park, even though I think they’re a bunch of thieves. It was only for a half hour anyway, so I didn’t think it would cost much, but that was before a gigantic hurricane attacked us.
My business might have taken half an hour in total, in my imagined plan, followed by a relaxing read of the paper, maybe the crossword and a meeting with my henchmen to plan the assassination of a minor dictator in South America or Central Africa. In other words, an average day.
Is that how it turned out?
Absolutely not. Dictators remained unassassinated as slates flew from our roofs, and I huddled in a pub, slugging coffee and clocking up parking charges.
Damn! I don’t mind savage weather, but I’m not all that fond of having my head cloven in two by a falling slate. That’s not something any of us wants. And so I cooled my heels in front of a burning fire, finishing Sudokus and trying to complete the new crossword that none of us can understand any more.
My main concern is simple enough: has the Bockschloss been demolished by this appalling onslaught? But if I try to drive home, will I be killed by a flying roof? Will a tree suddenly topple and extinguish the life for me? Man killed by falling oak. Dismally crushed, as Tristram Shandy put it, in the first novel ever written.
I arrive home to find the Bockschloss more or less intact, though not entirely. There is a certain amount of damage, for which I will have henchmen shot, but the Hound of Satan has taken charge and is directing operations. Sadly, though, my hand-built gazebo is no more.
Oh well. It affords more time for my research work with the Iona Institute Prayer Group.