Driving across the causeway to the island this morning I nearly swerved off the road when a kingfisher suddenly shot past and flew alongside me, its short sharp beak and the rapid flapping of its wings instantly distinctive, more so even than its brilliant colouring in the dark, misty drizzle that’s descended on us today. It seems odd to see kingfishers right by the sea, but we’ve seen them flying along the edge of Portland harbour now for three winters in a row.
Living three miles out to sea has its advantages (more sunshine than average, later sunsets, cleaner air…) but when we get a south-westerly gale like the one that’s been raging for the last couple of days we really get it in the neck. Everything booms and rattles all day and all night, the salt spray burns our precious plants, and my study windows get so thickly coated with oily spray that I can hardly see outside. Even a walk to the end of the street leaves you breathless, completely dishevelled and slightly sticky with salt.
On days like these I’m thankful for our foot-thick Portland-stone walls, which must have witnessed many gales far worse than this, such as the Great Gale of November 1824 (more colourfully known as The Outrage) which breached Chesil Beach, drowned 25 islanders, swept away the old ferry across the Fleet and even, a mile or two inland, blew a farmer’s turnips clean out of the ground.
Today’s casualty: a brand-new jar of Marmite (large size). Interesting what happens when dropped from a height of five feet on to a tiled floor. Tiny shards of needle-sharp brown glass everywhere, and sticky brown goo oozing out between the remaining pieces. I just sighed this time.
I have good days and bad days of being clumsy, and today was definitely a bad day. I have a constant war with inanimate objects: if there’s something I can hit my head on I’ll hit it, if there’s something breakable I’ll drop it, if there’s a length of wire or a washing line it’ll get into a knot, if there’s a step I can trip over I’ll trip over it.
Each incident is intensely annoying and often painful, but the cumulative effect, after a while, is simply depressing. The first few times I swear (and my language is appalling). Then I break things, in a pathetic attempt to punish them for making my life such a misery. Finally I’m reduced to crying, often on the floor, as much in frustration as in defeat.
Why do inanimate objects hate me so much? What did I ever do to them? It’s a mystery to me.
