This morning the whole country is suffering from wind.
Skirls of seagulls are beating into it, scanning the fields forlornly for fish.
According to the morning news, incoming aircraft are arriving an hour early, catapulted across the Atlantic by a 220 mph jetstream.
Our dustbin bags are inching their way more sedately up the North Downs. If they reach the crest before the lorry comes, they'll take wing and come down in Deauville.
In my old Cornish stamping grounds, there is flooding at Tressillian and the Norway Inn. The path at St Clement will be under water, where folk walk dogs between the river and pennyworted walls.
The dog curled up beside me is all grump and body language. She says it's not a day for walking. No way.