pixeldiva wrote in April 2009

Storms

I was going to write about something else.

I came up here with a clear idea in mind of what I was going to write. So much so that the words were lining up politely in my head, ready to come out one by one.

Then it rained.

Not just the pitter patter of light refreshing spring rain.

Oh no. It rained.

Biblical rain.

Apocalyptic rain.

Proper Scottish rain.

Then came the thunder.

I’m not sure if there was lightning, as I dived under my desk at that point.

Well, not really, but storms do make me nervous, even though I’m an adult, indoors, in a house that can most likely withstand pretty much anything barring a freak hurricane.

The thing is, when I was a kid, I was actually blown away in a storm.

I was about three years old, and we were on my way to see my granny, who lived in a flat at the top of a hill. It was a nasty night. The rain was pelting down and the wind was really high.

I can’t remember exactly what delayed my mum and dad at the car after I was taken out of my car seat (it may have been getting my baby sister out of hers), but rather than wait for my parents to take my hand, I toddled off, eager to see granny (most likely for the sweeties she kept in the inner pocket of her handbag).

I must have been struggling to walk, with the high wind pushing me towards the building, but somehow, even that didn’t make me wait, and as I stepped beyond the edge of the building, a huge gust of wind caught me and lifted me clear off my feet, up into the air and down the road, depositing me unceremoniously into the path of an oncoming car, while my parents gawped, panicked and my dad ran to try and get the attention of the driver and stop him from running me over and squashing me flat.

Since I’m writing this, I obviously didn’t get squashed, but I did get very scared, and grazed hands and knees, and ever since then I’ve been anxious when it’s stormy.

Tonight, I’m not so bothered about the high wind, I’m more bothered about the broken gutter outside my bedroom window, which just happens to be directly above the plastic gas meter box – a combination which produces remarkable amplification of each and every single drop which lands on it.

It’s going to be a long night.

Dad

I remember listening to Radio 4 in the car on the way home from wherever, and sitting in the car outside the house because we were halfway through “I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue” or somesuch, and we wanted to hear it til the end.

I remember going to computer fairs and buying bits and pieces and building computers together on the kitchen table.

I remember how every visit to anything had to include a stop for a “cup of tea” which almost always involved cake.

I remember “The Goon Show” re-enacted, voices and all.

I remember sitting on wooden stools in the kitchen until my bum went numb, watching the TV or talking about things.

I remember the flat bottomed handwriting, because he always wrote against a ruler, except near the end, and that shaky, unflat handwriting still breaks my heart.

I remember the stupid Tandy beachball that blew out of my hands on Lossiemouth beach and running into the North Sea after it, afraid I’d get in trouble for losing it. I remember him running after me to stop me from going too deep, and telling me it didn’t matter, but that he wished I’d dropped his (unread) copy of the Glasgow Herald before I ran into the water.

I remember having Dr Seuss read to me when I was ill with tonsilitis.

I remember him cooking “proper” fish and chips in batter at home once, when mum went away for a couple of days, and how it felt so rebellious and tasted all the better for it.

I remember him telling me to go live my life and not put everything on hold waiting for him to die.

I remember so much.

I miss him so much.

I can’t believe it’s been seven years.