I just blew in from the windy city

The weather hit the headlines again this week. It also hit families and businesses hard as a storm now universally acknowledged to have been worse than the infamous Boxing Day 1998 event left a trail of devastation in its wake on what was expected to be a quiet, boring Tuesday morning. Falling masonry, flying cladding and uprooted trees damaged homes, cars and power lines; transport was disrupted and the public was advised not to travel. Some idiot with nothing better to do phoned Radio Scotland and blamed the Scottish Government. The rest of the population counted the cost or gave thanks that they had escaped, this time. It could have been so much worse.

It was the last day of what passed for a holiday. I had planned to go out early to pick up some essential provisions then return home and wallow in self-pity for the rest of the day. I awoke around seven-thirty and came to the conclusion that the ferocity of the wind would prevent my escape for some time, so I stayed in bed. It was immediately obvious that, once awake, I’d never be able to sleep through it. I decided that it would be a good idea to take a look at the Met Office web site and plan my day around the forecast. Then I got out of bed.

I couldn’t understand why all the (internal) doors were open. The door to the living room (or whatever it’s called these days) was more ajar than the rest, so I wandered in there and turned the lights on. I stared at the centre window for what seemed like an age and couldn’t figure out where it had gone. As I made my tentative approach, I had visions of the frame recumbent in downstairs’ garden, but I soon realised that it had travelled through 180 degrees and was resting against its neighbour to the right. I haven’t got a clue how the window had come loose, but fortunately, when it opened, it must have taken the curtain with it and the fabric had wound itself round one of the hinges, immobilising the frame by tethering it to the (lightweight) curtain track. There was no damage to the frames or the glass, so I sacrificed the curtain and secured the window. I’ve no idea how much time had passed since I arrived on the scene, but once I’d closed the window, I realised that I was in a state of semi-embarrassment. Thankfully, for all concerned, it was a holiday and it was still dark. I loosened my grip on the window catch and made a swift exit in the general direction of my pyjamas.

It’s been blustery ever since, though nowhere near as wild. As a result of the swirling winds and driving rain of Wednesday evening, I was left with a small puddle on my kitchen floor. I couldn’t find any obvious signs of fluid ingress in the loft, and an inspection of the roof (through binoculars) the next morning didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary, so I’m hoping that it was the result of a freak gust blowing some (i.e. a lot of) rain under a roof tile. I’m scared to look at weather forecasts, now.

On a brighter note, I braved the elements last night for a recital by Thistle Brass at Kilmardinny House. There were no programmes (the programme person had returned from holiday to a storm-damaged house), so I’m making this up as I go along. The ensemble comprised two trumpets (and variations thereof, including two flugel horns at the same time; very nice), a trombone, a French horn and a tuba. This combination was easy on the ear however, like a typical clarinettist, I sat as far away as possible. I think they opened with the ‘Earl of Oxford March’ by William Byrd, and may or may not have followed this with ‘Dances of the Scottish Court’ by John Maxwell Geddes (who is still alive; he found the manuscripts somewhere). They played something by a Russian composer called Victor Ewald, who used to hang around with the likes of Borodin and Rimsky Korsakov. He was a cellist, but wrote a lot of music for brass ensembles and, like his chums, he had a day job. It’s always nice when the musicians include some background information, though it would have been better if I’d written down a list of the music performed. I think they also played ‘Fire Dance’ by someone called Di Lorenzo and the piece John Williams composed for the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984, ‘Olympic Fanfare and Theme’. There was a lovely rendition of ‘Farewell to Stromness’ by Peter Maxwell Davies, some tunes from West Side Story and something by Michael Kamen. The evening closed with two slightly jazzier numbers; the Fats Waller favourite ‘I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ in the style of a wind-up gramophone (think about it) and Irving Berlin’s ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’. I’ve not heard such appreciative noises from the Kilmardinny audience since I started attending.