The Wind

It sounds almost like a piece of Zen wisdom-it is pointless to be angry at the wind. And yet, when one is perched atop a ladder, holding light though bulky material of a decidedly un-aerodynamic nature, the feelings experienced tend to oscillate between anger and something like fear. Your grip on the ladder is tighter, your bracing against the buffeting gusts leaves you exhausted and yet still you work. You work because you can, just. Heavy  precipition stops play, as do true gales but in the case of high winds, the line between workable and unworkable is blurred.
The UK is the windiest part of Europe, and whilst East Anglia cannot top the Hebrides for sheer wind speed, it can still blow. And blow hard. As bad as the gusts and blasts of autumn can be, they have nothing on the Lazy Wind of March. At this period in most years a bitter east wind gets up, forcing it's way from the cold heart of Russia and blowing for weeks at a time. They call it the Lazy Wind here on the east coast because it doesn't go round you, but straight through you. Few feel the wind in all it's moods as much as the thatcher.