Here We Go Again !
Advance warning of severe weather on Friday! I stared at the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, otherwise known as the weather forecaster, in disbelief. Nine cms of rain, my life, thats four inches in old money. There was a terrible sense of déja vu as we hauled the sandbags into place ready for flood diversion away from the patio and door.
The hole in the wall for the tumble dryer is now bricked up, ditto the airbricks.
The barrier across the boiler house door is firmly screwed into place, the joints reinforced with bath sealant, 49 sandbags protect the stables ( and piglets ) and a coal merchant's old 56lb weight sits atop the lid to the leaf filter of the underground rainwater tank.
A subsidary ditch now forms a rampart across the field behind us. We batten down the hatches and wait.
It starts at midnight, it rains, rains and rains. By daytime the lawn begins to over flow and a cascade starts to tumble off the steps into the patio, gently at first but gaining courage it becomes a force to be reckoned with. We watch as the level silently and enexorably rises. Imagine our joy as it dawns on us that the water is flowing away at the same rate at which it arrives. The river past the backdoor is a mere 3 inches deep.
Hurrah we are going to be OK.
Hark what is that plopping noise? It is the water running down inside the chimney breast. A chimney which I hasten to add, could lose several small boys in its capacious interior. Buckets and dishes and four bath towels to the rescue we catch the flow fast enough to prevent carpet damage.
The curtains in the dining room seem to darken, is this an over active imagination? No, it is water seeping through the lath and plaster walls, running down the windows and being soaked up by the accommodating curtains, the carpet is in fact already sodden. More towels etc etc etc.
The rain continues unabated. How is our only neighbour doing? They are completely moated by now but OK.
I inspect the chickens. Everything you have ever heard about wet hens is true. We catch them, one by one and shut them in their house, which happily is on posts 4 ft off the ground. They do not look relieved, merely very cold.
Poppy is supposed to be on a train to London, no trains are running.
We watch the news and listen to the local radio with rising horror and become fervently grateful we have fared so well.
Roads are closed, buses cancelled, cars abandoned, rivers burst their banks, bridges collapse, caravans are washed downstream.
The emergency services, as ever, rise to the occasion.
No one dies, pets are airlifted out in the arms of loving owners, brave men pull drivers out of submerged car sun roofs, a wonderful bride actually laughs as the church is isolated and she spends her "reception" in an adjacent care home, a very pregnant woman is boated to dry land.
I wonder, is this what our parents meant by the "Dunkirk Spirit?"
The hole in the wall for the tumble dryer is now bricked up, ditto the airbricks.
The barrier across the boiler house door is firmly screwed into place, the joints reinforced with bath sealant, 49 sandbags protect the stables ( and piglets ) and a coal merchant's old 56lb weight sits atop the lid to the leaf filter of the underground rainwater tank.
A subsidary ditch now forms a rampart across the field behind us. We batten down the hatches and wait.
It starts at midnight, it rains, rains and rains. By daytime the lawn begins to over flow and a cascade starts to tumble off the steps into the patio, gently at first but gaining courage it becomes a force to be reckoned with. We watch as the level silently and enexorably rises. Imagine our joy as it dawns on us that the water is flowing away at the same rate at which it arrives. The river past the backdoor is a mere 3 inches deep.
Hurrah we are going to be OK.
Hark what is that plopping noise? It is the water running down inside the chimney breast. A chimney which I hasten to add, could lose several small boys in its capacious interior. Buckets and dishes and four bath towels to the rescue we catch the flow fast enough to prevent carpet damage.
The curtains in the dining room seem to darken, is this an over active imagination? No, it is water seeping through the lath and plaster walls, running down the windows and being soaked up by the accommodating curtains, the carpet is in fact already sodden. More towels etc etc etc.
The rain continues unabated. How is our only neighbour doing? They are completely moated by now but OK.
I inspect the chickens. Everything you have ever heard about wet hens is true. We catch them, one by one and shut them in their house, which happily is on posts 4 ft off the ground. They do not look relieved, merely very cold.
Poppy is supposed to be on a train to London, no trains are running.
We watch the news and listen to the local radio with rising horror and become fervently grateful we have fared so well.
Roads are closed, buses cancelled, cars abandoned, rivers burst their banks, bridges collapse, caravans are washed downstream.
The emergency services, as ever, rise to the occasion.
No one dies, pets are airlifted out in the arms of loving owners, brave men pull drivers out of submerged car sun roofs, a wonderful bride actually laughs as the church is isolated and she spends her "reception" in an adjacent care home, a very pregnant woman is boated to dry land.
I wonder, is this what our parents meant by the "Dunkirk Spirit?"
posted by Diary Cow at 1:54 pm
2 Comments:
This comment has been removed by the author.
Say what you will the British are OK. I had this confirmed by a very rich, powerful Indian chap the other day. He essentially said... "we were pissed off with you lot for colonising us, but you did at least leave our country in a decent manner, and your legacy was the infrastructure, legal and financial systems, and above all language, to become serious global players. Thanks to that, this century will be Indian". I liked him.
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