The wind blew today. It blew the hats off old ladies going to church. It blew empty crisp packets up the street. It blew the blades of the wind turbines on Burbo Bank around and around and around and around.
It blew on the fire that I could see the smoke from, somewhere just over the Liverpool horizon. It blew on Bren's gazebo, at an arts fair in West Kirby, and knocked one of her easels over, breaking a frame.
And it blew on a gate on our allotment, swinging it wide, just as I drove past it. The gate, with its' bolt extended, smashed my wing mirror.