Wowee, is it windy here or what?! Last night was rather sleepless, caused, I now know, by one of the branches of a tree in the garden tapping on the roof in the wind. I was consumed with panic that we were about to be attacked in our beds last night by some tapping, blood-thirsty burglar, but obviously was far too lazy to get out of bed and actually check (or indeed to worry why any blood-thirsty criminal would think to knock first). Apparently we’re catching the tail end of Hurricane Whatnot (or maybe that should be Hurricane Yoke, using my new Irish language skills), causing winds gusting at over 40 miles per hour. This, combined with driving rain and a nasty accident, took my total school-run-from-hell time to a record-breaking 2 hours and 45 minutes. Not only was this intensely frustrating and boring, but I had plenty of opportunity to discover that my local radio station plays exactly the same news broadcast every 15 minutes. And I’m sorry, but I could feel no sympathy for the poor punters stuck outside the K Club waiting while every ‘temporary structure’ was battened down. No, I was more concerned with the fact that I needed a wee. I apologise for lowering myself to the discussion of bodily functions but, blimey, have you ever needed to go when stuck in traffic? No? Well lucky you because there’s nothing more excruciating.

To take my mind off my toilet troubles, I started to wonder why hurricanes have such pathetic names. I mean, this is the 40 mph tail end of a hurricane that must have been a belter, yet they call it Hurricane Bernard, or Hurricane Doris, or some such unlikely thing. I mean, with something so powerful, you’d think they’d think of a better name, like..er..Hurricane Satan or Hurricane Lucifer, or, with the Irish penchant for naughty language, maybe Hurricane Bastard would be more appropriate. Ooh, or Hurricane Gobshite (sorry, I’ll stop now).

You also won’t be surprised to know that after getting over her excitement that I was actually home again (I think she’d lost all hope), B nearly died of shock when faced with the very strong breeze and proceeded to spend our whole walk crawling along practically on her tummy and trying to squeeze herself in between my feet, tripping me over several times in the process. A greyhound terrified of wind? Hmm.. a certain irony there I think.

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