The wind howled last night. It came from the direction that makes it want to get into my bedroom window, shaking at the window panes, rattling the long arm thingy that keeps it open. I don’t know which direction it is when it does that, but it seems to shake the House in the Middle of the Street to its very roots. My house, let’s put it lightly, is not all that, um, tightly put together – the windows don’t close completely, the door has a gap through which leaves can blow. It’s Africa, you see, we don’t do air tight. I love it dearly though, despite its noisy nature on windy nights.
I was amazed the first time I went to Europe, by how houses became almost hermetically sealed when you closed the two front doors. “Two front doors?” my naïve African-born-and-bred brain questioned, “How weird.” After a visit to the UK one November I got it. That ice wind can sting.
And that’s my story for today. Arbitrary, isn’t it?
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