The wind blew hard all night. Somewhere along the row of houses, of which our house forms a part, something is thudding, like a heavy bottomed glass set down too quickly on a table, rattling round with a clatter on the curve of its base until it settles. But the something that is somewhere on our row of houses never settles. The wind causes it to thud, and in my close-to-the-surface sleep, I dream that chimney pots are falling from the rooftops into the street. The wind is still blowing as I leave work the following lunchtime (that is, today) and walk into town. At certain points, in open spaces between the tallest buildings, the wind doesn’t know in which direction it should blow. It whips around on itself, and blows people to a standstill, as they brace themselves and try to walk into it. I run my errands and go home. Outside the house, the wind gusts and falls silent, gusts and falls silent. It is frightening and distracting. I can hear the same thudding that I could hear in the night. It is real, not a dream, but no chimneys have fallen. At least, not yet, they haven’t.