The transition of British seasons is rarely subtle, but this week has been exceptional.
Last weekend, we were sitting outside basking in t-shirts and shorts. By Thursday, we were wrapped in fleece layers and hats. By Friday morning, full-blown meteorological wind socks would have been appropriate equipment. Strong gales and horizontal rain were vigorously battering Pewsey.
Exploiting a brief lull between torrential downpours, I ventured outside to tackle the driveway. It had become completely buried under a thick layer of fallen chestnuts and spiky green casings, rendering the drive dangerously slippery for humans and a total minefield for the dogs. The prickly shells were making morning navigation thoroughly miserable for canine paws.
Armed with a leaf blower, broom and sheer determination, I cleared the entire expanse, sweeping away every last spike until the gravel was pristine. Extremely pleased with my industrious handiwork, I retreated indoors just as the next storm front swept across the vale.
Thirty minutes later, I glanced out of the window. The driveway was once again completely, utterly covered in a fresh layer of green prickly artillery.
I officially give up. The chestnuts have won. I shall be leaving nature to its own devices until the storm subsides.
After clocking up three gym sessions this week, playing table tennis literally every single day, and managing the usual endless list of domestic chores, I decided that a total physical stand-down was required for Friday afternoon.
With family arriving later in the evening for an Indian takeaway, I declared the rest of the day a write-off, curled up with a good book, and let the underfloor heating do its job while the wind howled outside.
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