Making martinis .

More storms . Shutters slamming , downpipes sputtering . In Scotland the downpipes were great cast iron things . More like cannons . Here, they're made of lighweight zinc . When it rains the water clunks and rattles its way through them . In the middle of a downpour 'the font' thinks they make a noise like water on a hot skillet . Angus thinks it's more like the sound of a cocktail shaker making martinis.

Wilf wanders upstairs . There was time when he was imperturbable. No longer. The sound of the gale unsettles him . His old arthritic legs beat a clump - clump - clump on the wooden staircase . I'm working at the desk in the drawing room . He doesn't like the drawing room . Too much furniture to navigate around . He ventures slowly between an armchair and a side table before settling . He lets out a loud ' humph ',half of satisfaction,half of irritation . My feet turned into his hearth . He's brought up a filthy old chew that's been hidden in the garden ; saved for a moment like this. Wet and soggy, the ends tinged black, seasoned with something seriously indecorous . He proudly lifts his head to show me his prize. He exudes a quiet , infectious , happiness that words can't quite grasp and which humans can only envy . Three minutes later he's snoring gently away .

As Epicurus said " Skilful pilots gain their reputation through storms and tempests ".