How I braved the storm called Brian
WELL, Storm Brian was not quite Hurricane Ophelia, so I didn’t fancy letting him put me off a longanticipated trip to glorious Ballycotton Bay slap bang on top of the somewhat agitated Atlantic in Ireland’s East Cork. I had no intention of kite surfing, standing on the edge of a cliff while a 110mph wind blew through me or anything else dangerous and daredevilish.
When Saturday morning dawned, however, the sun shone through the rain and the Wizard Of Oz-style tundra-esque atmosphere had abated somewhat, I fancied taking a walk down the nearby “boreen” (secret pathway to the ocean) to soak up a bit of Brian first-hand. The Other Half was unimpressed. “I don’t do storms. I don’t do outdoors in winds that are featuring in TV shows. You must be mad and if you insist on craziness you’d better go and be a fruit loop on your own.”
So off I strode, Gentle Reader, flower-patterned wellingtons to the fore, mobile phone in pocket in case of emergency, hood up, windcheater fastened, face upturned to catch the ions that surely must be blowing revivifying breezes into my towntainted lungs?
I say strode. What I really mean is “trod gingerly”. I proceeded at the somnolent speed of a severely constipated snail. I stared fearfully at trees (which were few) lest they fall upon my head. I glared timidly at the ground, lest I hurtle into a hidden ditch or plummet headlong over a hostile rock. I jumped at every gust, winced at every buffet. If I’d had the chance, I’d have speeddialled a troupe of Sherpas or summoned Bear Grylls.
Let me tell you what caused the chronic dissonance between the adventurous jaunt I intended to have and the timorous creep I ended up making. It was a chronic chorus of disapproval and every word of it emanated from my dearly beloved departed. I could hear my mother (dead 22 years) tut-tutting and issuing dire warnings about my foolhardy behaviour. Meanwhile my grandmas Babs (dead 23 years) and Sybil (dead 33 years) chipped in with prognostications of doom and utter incredulity at my idiotic conduct.
I tried to ignore the voices of the dead. I failed. “Be careful!” “You could slip!” “You might fall!” “You’re tempting fate!”. “What about your children?” “What about your grandchildren?” Those who love me did in death exactly as they did in life – lecture me without mercy.
Could I defy them? Could I press on regardless? I never stood a chance. Minutes after my intrepid odyssey began, I was back in the cosy kitchen. The Other Half just about managed not to say: “I told you so.”
Here’s the thing. Those who love us make an indelible mark on our psyches. They are with us forever. Death does not sever us from those we care about. So, I’m not Chris Bonington?
I am safe and sound much Vanessa Feltz. and
HE’S NOT SO POWERFUL NOW
very HARVEY WEINSTEIN is said to have completed a week of “intensive” therapy for sex addiction as an outpatient. There’s a chance the regime could work. After all, when Weinstein apparently struck he was an omnipotent despot. He is said to have owned and bought everyone in his sphere, to have made and destroyed careers, lives and salaries. No-one dared expose or refuse him. He sure as heck can’t do any of that stuff now.