Aidan Matear

I wasn’t around in ‘87 to see the devastation of the great storm. But I’ve heard the lore and seen terrible images of bad hair styles, abominable fashion and weather forecasting with dodgy tech. Magnetic clouds didn’t stick to maps and rain could have fallen anywhere. Forget no hurricane, why no CGI or views from space?
Now they warn us of dangers, colour coded meteorological mayhem. Storms given names, identities, so we can personally connect somehow. It’s more complicated now, more exciting, a theatre to engage and to vex us; anxiety levels ballooning sky high. What used to be boring old winter is now sinister seasonal psychopathic stormZ.
Then came the great breeze of ‘17 with leaves blown from trees, – unheard of in October! Almost piled up on near impassible footpaths. Schools closed. Businesses shuttered. Trains cancelled. Pets tranquilised. Wheelie bins indiscernibly migrated. Postmen in shorts battling victoriously onwards, anchored by heavy sacks.

I needed a coat and considered a hat, but thought better of it.

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