The January wind

There's been a lot of it, for the last three days. Laura accompanied a frail pal by bus to Wells. After waiting twenty minutes at the busstop they were drenched. The bus was unheated. The journey went on a long time. First there was a fallen tree in the road, then near Shepton the bus went through a flooded bit that was so deep the water ran over the floor. In Wells, Laura spent £2.50 on a pair of too-skinny jeans from a charity shop just so she could step out of her sodden rags.

An aluminium can rolled around the garages all night, temporarily drowning out the incessant flapping of a plastic sheet that was pinned under a car's rear wheels.

The wind is like a burglar wandering round the human premises and amusing itself by throwing everything about.

Paper plates, dried egg noodles, crisps, tacos, poppadoms, lettuce, rocket, lollo rosso, prawn crackers, meringues, tuile biscuit curls and other fancy rubbish are fair game. A 3-pack of sponge-scourers paws at a downpipe. A luxe bridal veil soars over the estuary. A draft novel that has been disposed of in bulk becomes separated into a stream of migrating pages, each of which makes better reading than the whole book. They encounter food-packets and till receipts, and a clutch of those unloved leaflets that (we now know why) are commonly known as flyers.

The wind is beginning to pry into our strongholds. The rain, hurling itself at every surface, is beginning to infiltrate our strongholds.

Another tree comes crunching down in Little Keyford lane, taking a large bite out of a stone wall.