I HAVE a problem with wind. Not the kind that involves people moving away from me, waving their hands delicately in front of their noses. Weather-type wind is what concerns me. People sometimes call Edinburgh the Windiest Capital in Europe – and they're not kidding. I frequently look like some low-rent Marcel Marceau as I fight my way home against the gusts. Thankfully, I'm quite well ballasted and so there's no real danger of me doing a Mary Poppins impersonation as well.
It's not just my movements that are affected by the gales. Weather always influences what you wear, but whereas sunshine brings on attacks of paranoia about my Anne Robinson-style arms and rain brings on cold sweats about whether or not my calves wil
l ever get into those boots, wind – like love – changes everything.
First you have to determine whether it's a cold or a warm wind. How many of you have peeked outside in the morning, seen the trees bent double and consequently bundled yourself up against the elements, only to arrive at your destination hot, bothered and sweating like a navvy because it wasn't remotely cold? There are certain things you obviously can't wear on windy days. Wrap dresses are not designed for the exposed stretches of Edinburgh's North Bridge. Well, not unless you've actually set out to show van drivers the control part of your control-top tights. I've occasionally had to walk to work with my hands clamped to my knees. A good look, I'm sure you'll agree.
It's not just clothes. You can't wear lip gloss when it's windy. Well, you can, but only if you really want to end up with your hair stuck fast to your lips, doing a fair imitation of Jimmy Edwards (younger readers should ask their parents) in yet another impression. Mike Yarwood (again, ask your mum) has nothing on me when the wind blows.
But the high winds this past week have brought a whole new problem.
The rear of Turner Towers overlooks seven or eight adjoining gardens – gardens that are enclosed by the high buildings all around. Cut off from the hustle and bustle of the city. A little oasis of calm, you might say. Disturbed only by the chirruping of some small bird. But someone, some nameless individual, some thoughtless idiot, has bought – I can hardly bring myself to say it – a wind chime.
I know, I know. There are some of you who find these infuriating little pieces of tat soothing. Restful, even. Well, they're not. They don't chime. Big Ben chimes. They don't soothe. A warm bath soothes. They incense. They chink away endlessly. Never letting up for a moment. Day and night. When all should be calm and peaceful, the air is filled with 'chink, chink, chink'. Normally, that would be a welcome noise, signifying the arrival of heavily-laden bags from the off licence. But now it's enough to set off the twitch in my left eye.
There are about 50 or so flats that back on to the gardens and I have spent the last few days seeking out the culprit. I've had the time to devote to it – the incessant 'chiming' has prevented me from sleeping – and I'm pretty certain I've identified who is to blame. Now, I just need to lay my hands on a cherry picker and some wire cutters.
The full article contains 582 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
