I have fucking had it. The August winds have been blowing barn-flattening strong for weeks now. Tumbling dead leaves fill the air like swarming locusts, landing and burying everything. The pool’s leaf soup, and the filter’s gagging on the all-roughage diet. The hammock’s become a giant potpourri of dead leaves and twigs, and the patio’s vanished under crunchy brown snowdrifts. Trying to sweep it away is a Sisyphean futility. This wind’s sentient, malevolent. When I try to fly my kite (when life gives you lemons, make lemonade and so on and so forth), I either get scorching string burns as the kite gets snapped out of my fingers, or watch it stall and plummet as the winds seemingly holds its breath out of spite. It's become a bitter personal enemy. Take this extract from The English Patient:
“There is a whirlwind in Southern Morocco, the Aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. Herodotus tells of a wind - the Simoon - so evil that a nation declared war on it and marched out to fight it in full battle dress, their swords raised.”
Fuck it, if they can, I can. The kitchen arsenal has yielded an egg beater and a rolling pin, though I fear they may not be quite up to the task of thrashing an entire low pressure system. Any suggestions?