There will, sadly, be no Friday Tale of Mirth and Woe this week. I was dragged from my office yesterday morning - before I had even sunk my first coffee of the morning - under instructions to return to my charming seaside abode toot sweet on account of large chunks falling off due to unclement weather.
No shit.
Woe, in fact. Luckily, there was nobody walking past at the time, or I dare say someone might have been killed to death. Let's face it, that kind of rubble landing on top of you is really going to hurt.
I would, at this point, like to thank Lloyds TSB insurance for doing their best to stop me from making a claim without even stepping foot outside their offices. I don't blame them, to be honest, for the Met Office had the wind speed at Gale 8, gusting to Storm 10.
I am told that the sky went black, rivers of blood flowed down the street, plagues of locusts, closely followed by a righteous mountain-levelling wind sent to smite the ungodly. Bang on target, then.
"If only," I told Mrs Duck as a JCB digger attacked our house, "If only we'd had a hedge there. But 'no', you said. 'Hedges only encourage people to be sick. We've got to have a house with a wall.' Now look what's happened."
Then I was sick inna hedge.
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