We just had possibly the most miserable weekend of weather ever. Grey skies, sub-hurricane winds, and relentless driving rain. Imagine a vacation in Hornsea (or in my case replace imagine with recall).
Anne and I had a blast. Turned on the fire, watched bad TV and cooked dinners in our kitchen. Domestic bliss created we went to bed last night happy and content.
3am. In unison. "Is that our doorbell?"
It was our doorbell, only if you imagine it being 'mixed' by Grandmaster Flash. Obviously being the man of the house I sent Anne down first to see if anyone in a hockey mask was stood on our porch. In true horror movie style, she went downstairs without flicking the light switch.
We turned off the security alarm, and the block-rocking doorbell beats stopped. I bravely checked that nobody was ringing the bell at the basement door in a comedy Sou'wester. Negative.
Alarm back on, we went back to bed. As soon as the next wave of gusting wind returned the doorbell went off again. It's no good telling our alarm company, they'll say it's the doorbell. Call a sparky, and they'll say it's the alarm people.
Let's just hope this wind dies down ...
Also much worse than our comedy doorbell are the moronic wind chimes our neighbor has hanging from their porch. Why can't the wind blow those fuckers away?