Wandering round the Isle of Iona this weekend, I was reminded of all the wonderful things, the things that I miss, the things that I really loved about being there.
And there was also wind.
I would say I was ‘reminded’ of the wind, but it wasn’t just that I was reminded, because reminded sounds like a *nice* thing, and wind isn’t a nice thing. Sorry.
‘Reminded’ also sounds like a soft, gentle memory jogging, rather than a physical slapping round the chops with the moving-air equivalent of a bucket of spackle.
A gentle breeze is ‘nice’. A warm zephyr, a breath rolling over the savanah – these are nostalgic, evocative winds. The winds in the Inner Hebrides in early February are not. It is thought that the Ministry of Defence secretly holds a laboratory under the sea, and has been developing and testing the world’s largest cold-air only hairdryer in the area for many years. The hairdryer is thought to be over 900 metres high, to have absolutely no practical application whatsoever, blowing icy cold air chilled specially in the hearts of the developers themselves.
I remember living there, and the wind, that started blowing in late September or early October, and blew straight through til April or May. Nonstop. Non. Stop. It didn’t stop. It just blew. I remember seeing people in March actually stopping in their tracks and shouting at the sky. But I couldn’t hear what they were screaming, you understand, because of the stupid cunting wind.
Do I want to move somewhere like this, my beloved kept asking? Shall we run away to the sea and write random stuff for a living? Well, yes, we could, I spose, as long as he was prepared to swaddle me in draft excluder within reach of a computer and prop me in a corner til spring. Wrapped in a duvet. With a hat on.
But other than that, not really, no.
I love my windy beloved, but we will not wander somewhere windy.
It’s all about the windies, you see.
Other things I need to remember to write about:
– What happened to my face that means I can’t wear my glasses.
– Wedding Singers.
– What, exactly, I’m supposed to do with these sausages that the bride gave me.
– Buckeroo for growedups.
Or if anyone has any better ideas, I’ll write about those instead. Or maybe do a minute-by-minute report of the Channel Five movie tomorrow. Or whatever you think best, really. Does anyone think best? Or better than me, at least?