You know, that tornado in Kensal Rise made the news here yesterday, so you know it was odd. "A tornado, in December? In London?" the radio said yesterday morning as we drove to work. I quickly got online when I got to my desk and saw photos of familiar-looking streets littered with red bricks and debris. Crikey, I thought. That tornado was pretty powerful. Everybody I mentioned it to that day gasped in disbelief that a tornado could actually happen in a big city not known for its twisters (except those ones spinning around Westminster and Wapping) (no I don't really get that, either). Nor did people believe that the UK tops the league for tornadoes, pound for pound (though most are coastal, like the one that blew down Patrick Moore's back-garden observatory a few years back; he didn't see that coming with his fancy telescope). It brought back memories of the great storm of 87, the surprise hurricane that got me out of going to school one October day, the hurricane that Michael Fish famously announced was just a rumour. I wonder if Michael Fish syndrome affected George Bush and pals just before Katrina? "Nobody anticipated the [insert appropriate term here]." I used to have dreams about tornadoes when I was a kid growing up in Burnt Oak. I would always see them across the rooftops from my window, looking south. The sheer unavoidable force of nature, the incredibly narrow path of destruction. I was certain that I'd dream about them last night. But no, I dreamt about a huge giant bunny rabbit with sharp teeth which was ambling around the garden drunk.
blowin in the wind
9.12.06 04:24
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