night of the big windbags

 The Irish weather service, styled Met Eireann, have spent the last few weeks doing their best to drum up a bit of panic about some storm or other.

"This will be the worst storm in Irish history with winds in excess of one hundred miles an hour," they screamed in one of their more restrained press releases.

At a certain point during the build up, my old pal Rowena remarked over Tiffin: "I wish RTE would just shut up about the rain."

RTE is Ireland's national television fraudcaster, a leftist cabal financed through compulsory taxation on the citizenry and accountable to no one except the people trafficking, drug dealing, child abusing IRA terrorist mafia which control it through the boardroom and the trade union movement.

"They're never going to shut up," I told her, "because they're trying to convince suggestible people like you that climate change is real. If you get a moment to think for yourself, the jig is up."

So to the storm.

It was a typical Irish storm with a splendid wind rifling the fields in mystic darkness and some lovely atmospheric special effects vis a vis crashes and thumps.

The next day, I emerged into my garden to review the post apocalyptic landscape and I suppose with somewhat rueful resignation, to begin the task of repopulating the earth.

There were a few broken branches on the lawn.

Sounds of traffic reached me from the street.

I detected a notable absence of dishevelled sexy bims at my gate pleading: "We're the only ones left, you must give me a child James for the good of humanity."

There had been a storm certainly but hardly the worst storm ever.

Not even the worst storm in the past year.

An outdoor table and chair standing undisturbed beneath the cherry tree, greeted me like an old friend.

They had not stirred an inch to the left or to the right during the worst of Mother Nature's onslaught.

"That's some hundred mile an hour wind," I murmured thoughtfully, "if it can't even budge a little table and chair."

Later at the supermarket, Mrs Merchison approached me in the checkout queue.

"Wasn't the storm terrible?" she exclaimed.

"Ah it wasn't that bad," I ventured.

She hurried away as though I'd hit her.