Wuthering, Wild Weather…

Chronicles of an Orange-Haired Woman!

The curtains of Summer have been wrenched back by high winds and Autumn comes galumphing, blowing and huffing onto the stage, strewing detritus left and right. Centre stage, the gazebo wobbles and strains on its fragile poles and the green material flaps and threatens to take off for pastures new. The Director’s Chair, placed at the central point within the gazebo, still stands, but its blue coat has twisted almost completely off and hangs, at a forlorn angle, resembling nothing so much as a the cast-off skin of a vast snake.

Stage right, the carpeting is festooned with curls of blown leaf, petals from outdoor plants and, for some mysterious reason, squashed dog turds. The last of these I scrape off the sward and immure in plastic bags – though, at times, it is hard, at first glance, to distinguish between them and the rug of brownish leaves and I…

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