'I thought about Bobby Charlton and men like him during the recent storms'

NOW that baldness seems more common, often self-inflicted, the lengths – little play on words there, no extra charge – to which Bobby Charlton went to disguise his lack of hair seem ever more ludicrous.

They seemed ludicrous enough in the Sixties as the great Manchester United and England player ran with his few foot-long strands of hair flying behind lashing unwary opponents.

He was not alone. Any strong wind or gale would turn those with carefully arranged coils into desperately worried men as comb-overs that started slightly above an ear broke free.

I thought about Bobby and men like him during the recent storms, reflecting not only that they all look much better with short back and sides, but that their efforts to keep hair in place had provided the only mildly entertaining aspect of any gale.

Because in spite of WS Gilbert's "There is grandeur in the growling of the gale, there is beauty in the bellow of the blast" – clearly a man with a good crop of hair, Bobby Charlton wouldn't write that – gales bring only bad temper and misery.

At minor level they take breath away, whip plastic bags and rubbish into gardens and leave – a personal grouch – two slates on the front doorstep.

But as I had spent most of the night listening to windows rattle, the house rigging shake and someone else's shed door slam, slam, slam, two slates was almost a bonus. I was prepared to see at least a dozen gone, several snapped branches and a downed telephone line.

This pessimism, foreign as it is to my sunny nature, goes back to the farm when, as for sailors, nothing good ever came of a gale. In August or September it meant a field of straw rolled up against a hedge and grain blown onto the ground faster than a combine could cut.

In the good old days of combines and tractors without cabs such a gale meant streaming eyes, a red-raw face, and dust, straw and barley awns – thin extensions of the grain which have peculiarly saw-like edges – reaching most uncomfortable places.

But January gales are more frequent. Even inevitable. There was the one that blew the bonnet off the Morris 1000. And the one that blew in the cottage window. And the one that hit our new shed, our pride and joy, driving 150 cattle – and not only the cattle – frantic as it blew the end door off its rollers before popping a dozen skylights like a row of light bulbs.

Then there was the early morning I watched helpless as 120 feet of six-inch guttering began to break loose, writhing along its length before taking off to smash over an area I had shortly before had the sense to vacate.

Or the time I leapt out of a tractor only for the gale to slam the door before I had removed my hand. Flat fingers aren't pretty. Or the time we were silly enough to try to nail down flapping sections on a corrugated iron roof as the gale raged. Torn fingers aren't pretty either.

But enough. There's always someone worse off, in the case of the recent gales, much worse, and I got off lightly losing only a couple of slates. Yes, please feel free to do your own jokes.