And still it's windy.

I still can't help absolutely loving wandering home in a whimsical mini-gale. Even though I had one hell of a time actually getting home last night, with trams down and two roads closed and Manchester gridlocked and trains not running and buses erratic - even so, when it whips up my hair and ripples my suit trousers, I can't exactly resent it.

As far as I know, it's fairly recently that I've been conscious of loving the wind. I used to be a grey, overcast, cold weather sort of person. Since I can't enjoy the cold any more (damn lack of lipidic insulation, I say, only excusable by the fact that I'm getting sort of cute...) it's all felt different.

It'd be far too trite to try to link it all to some vagary of chronic depression, and besides I still love greyness, so! Obviously it's all down to Anadl, the Maiden of Storms, and clearly I should build her an altar and sacrifice glittery blingy things and make Diet Coke libations. (However, I'm not going to, because she's a fluffhead and I don't need to attract that sort of divine attention. I'm godly and scatterbrained enough by myself.)

Y'know, I'm sure the UK used to be much more stoic in the face of a little meteorology. Why's every storm, windy day, snowfall etc. send us into paroxysms?

After all, it's only going to get worse.