New life
Getting windy
Zenga Longmore
Those of you who are thinking of moving to the top floor of a tower block, heed my advice: think again. Dwell deeply upon the doom-laden tale I am about to relate, then ask yourself this question: could you really be happy in your new home in the sky?
Just before Christmas I was awoken in the middle of the night by an almighty crash. Thinking it must be the glass in the stairwell falling out again, I rolled over to resume a blissful sleep. Half an hour later it began to dawn on me that a hurricane appeared to be raging inside the flat as well as out. 'Why,' I asked myself sleepily, 'has this earth-shattering din lasted for so long? Don't say someone's crept into my kitchen and is now smashing all the crockery.' Making sure I did not wake Omalara, I climbed wearily from my bed to throw out my unwelcome guest.
It took a long time for me to force open the kitchen door, so strong were the winds pushing against it, but when I had finally done so, I beheld a most unusual sight. Plates, cups and pictures were clattering about, and bits of food had dislodged themselves from their home base and were whizzing through the air as if at a Hooray Henry's picnic. Obviously my first thought was that a poltergeist was paying a social call, so I was just about to phone the paranormal society, when, glancing casual- ly at the window, I noticed that it had made a dramatic bid for freedom. Clean gone. Within seconds I had phoned 999.
`Which service?' came a jaded voice. (Jaded indeed. Imagine what it must be like having to say 'which service?' all night long.) `I'm not sure, my window's blown out and I don't appear to have much of a kitchen left.'
`You'll want the Fire Brigade then.'
By the time the firemen arrived, another kitchen window had blown out; lucky, I suppose, for me, who did not have the bother of sweeping up too much glass, but not so fortunate for anyone who happened to be taking a stroll beneath.
None of the firemen knew quite what to do save to tell me to close all the doors `. . in case the other windows go. Phone the council, luvvy, and get 'em to put boards up. Just as well you weren't stand- ing by the window 'cause you might've got sucked out too, ha ha ha. Ah, it's a shame for the kiddy, though, eh?'
The kiddy, or Omalara as she is widely known, was gurgling and chuckling in my arms. I don't believe she has ever looked more cheerful. A baby's sense of humour is such that a well-meant loud noise, such as a `boor, may cause it to scream with anguish, but a less fortunate noise, like a window being broken by a storm, often impels it to guffaw with helpless mirth. Fall over, in the presence of a baby, and crack your head painfully on the corner of a table, and you will witness it weak with merriment. But back to that fateful night.
By the time the council workmen came with the boards, Omalara and I had waited for six hours in the hallway, too scared to move.
`Yeah, these tower blocks are terrible, ain't they? Windows flying around left, right and centre. Fancy living here with a baby,' one of the workmen remarked, glaring at me as if to say, 'How selfish can you get?'
The only good things to come out of all this are the boards I was given for the windows. A delicate shade of rust, they lend a certain je ne sais quoi to an otherwise drab kitchen. However, that does not detract from the fact that I am now forced to sleep in the hallway when- ever I sense any sign of a wind.
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