STORM BARNEY

I don't know why, but I think they ought to name storms the other way round. Hurricanes are alright: Hurricane Bob is gathering pace over the Atlantic. Hurricane Iris is on the move... just sounds right.

This year, on this side of the ocean, the meteorologists have decided to give names to storms lashing the UK, using the same alphabetical system - only we don't get 'hurricanes', we get storms. And for that reason, Storm Barney is currently whistling through the trees and rumbling down the chimney.

Storm Barney. Like I say, I don't know why but I think it should be the other way around. I think it ought to be: Barney (the) Storm.

There is a chance I'm personalising a weather system a bit too much. In the Storm family, there's Abigail Storm, the feisty Scottish maelstrom who blustered through the Highlands and flooded Cumbria, and then there's Barney Storm, the raucous maverick who's throwing my Dad's wind chimes around. This is not a children's book though, I do understand.

On the other hand I sometimes feel quite like having a 'storm barney' of my own. That's where you breeze in, have a funny five minutes getting as mad as a tornado and then slump down exhausted and slightly disappointed that you stil have to tidy up. Thankfully, I can mostly control my personal storm barneys. And I'm way too tired for that kind of thing anyway.

I like the sound of the wind out there. It's wild and free, unfettered and strong. There is something raw and powerful about it, like the pounding of the sea or the booming of thunder. It's restless and discontent, and it can only thump and roar and throw things about. I find that quite relaxing.