Yet again it's blowing an absolute hoolie; wind and rain battering the house, so much so that the order of the night is batten down the hatches, draw the curtains, lock the doors and light the woodburner.
The poplars at the front of the house, they're actually just over two huindred yards away, are swaying and tossing in the wind sounding like the engines on a low flying jet. In fact they are doing such a good imitation of a low flying jet that the boss thought they were an aeroplane.
The woodburner is blazing away with the dogs basking in front of it; the Speckled Hen has been perfectly poured as has the gin and tonic for the Boss and the wind is moaning and whistling around the house. The scene and the atmosphere are spot-on for an M.R. James ghost story.
Now where's my book.
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