Divine Wind

My newsagent chappie (the one who asked if I'd had a rough night yesterday)said how lovely it was this morning. Sadly I heard that correctly and didn't assume he was coming on to me. He said it with a shy grin and a slight blush to signify that he remembered the horror of the previous day's misunderstanding. And indeed, it has been a glorious bright, blustery day. Marred only by the knowledge that Euston is no longer operating a Thursday service due to the wrong kind of leaves on the line, in turn due to the high winds. Instead they will be running a Saturday service. I had no idea the type of anything was so vital to the continued service of so many things. For instance, while I was in Yorkshire at the weekend (yes, my tour has started, buy your tickets now) I passed a windfarm. Lots of sleek and majestic windmills (without the mills, so I'm not sure what to call them)standing proudly though incongruously in a field, keeping watch over the sheep, llamas and struggling walkers. The wind was howling around my ears as I asked my walking companion why they weren't operating in this gale. The wrong kind of wind, apparently. Well, whaddaya know. Even the wind gets it wrong sometimes. As the eskimos have twenty three words for snow (a myth apparently), so I shall develop forty seven words for wind and build a separate windmill for each one (note to self: might need a bigger
garden).