Recovering from Storm Kathleen

Monday, 8th April 2024

Today we bore witness to the aftermath of Storm Kathleen, where the winds have finally decided to take a breather, and the world seems to exhale in relief. Here I am, strolling with the pups, who are blissfully unaware of the meteorological drama that just unfolded. They’re just thrilled to be out, tongues lolling, tails wagging like metronomes set to the beat of pure joy. The ‘big beast’—that trusty old vehicle, serves as the chariot for this merry band. It’s a scene straight out of a feel-good movie, where the storm is over, the sun peeks through, and all’s right with the world, at least until the next puddle splash.

Repairs to the Big Beast

The beast had suffered a puncture at Eastwell Court, and I have decided on solid rubber tyres as a durable replacement. They eliminate the worry of punctures and provide a better ride quality.

The replacement wheel on the beast makes a stranger sound than the other three but solid rubber is the way to go. I still have not found a technique to get the tyre back on to the rim that suffered the puncture. As I told my dear lady wife, this is why I do not do D.I.Y.

As I struggled, I could feel my father’s pity. So plays out the age-old tale of sibling differences. While I juggle the toolbox like a hot potato, my little brother is the family’s mechanical maestro, turning wrenches into magic wands. It’s like we are both from different planets in the D.I.Y. solar system.

I, my friend, am from the abstract world of theory, where ideas float freely, and the only nuts and bolts are the ones in brainstorm sessions. Meanwhile, my brother is the lord of the tangible, where every loose screw is an opportunity for greatness. But fear not, for every family needs its dreamer and its doer – while he conquers the physical realm with the gift of our father’s workshop, I master the art of imagination. After all, why wrestle with a stubborn bolt when you can be the grand architect of plans and strategies? So, I embrace my non-mechanical prowess; the world needs thinkers and planners just as much as it needs fixers and builders.

Upper Stoney

Storm Kathleen, the eleventh named storm of the season, made a clattering entrance and left a lasting impression on Upper Stoney. With gusts that could rival a dramatic opera singer’s high note, the storm scattered debris like a mischievous child tossing confetti at a wedding. The pups and I armed with nothing but determination and, for me, a sturdy pair of gloves, embarked on a quest to reclaim the lane from the clutches of Kathleen’s blustery aftermath. As we made our way towards Brailwood Road, you could imagine us as a parade of modern-day knights, albeit on a quest not for glory, but for the chivalric pride of neighbourhood tidiness. And as the wind continued to howl its farewell, it seemed to applaud our efforts, recognising that not all heroes wear capes—some wield rubbish pickers and brooms.

Brailwood Road

To be in the great outdoors! Well, for today, Brailwood Road where deadwood and brambles retreat in the face of human determination, and power cabinets stand like monuments to our modern age. The brambles have been cut back from an earlier pick and hopefully the area will regenerate.

It’s like a scene from a nature documentary, where the narrator whispers excitedly, “And here we see the urban jungle, slowly being reclaimed by nature.” The recent sunshine and showers are like a snooze button for those sleepy seeds, nudging them to wake up and get growing. Before you know it, the area will be a verdant paradise, or at least a less abandoned-looking patch of greenery. Here’s to hoping those seeds don’t hit the snooze button too many times!

Beneath the surface, large rubbish bags lurk, their contents a mosaic of household life, preserved like fossils under layers of earth and time. It’s a peculiar ballet, extracting these bags, as they resist the pull of the present, preferring the embrace of the past. Yet, it’s in this unearthing that one finds a rhythm, a method to the madness, as pulling from below grants victory over the stubborn plastic, which, starved of oxygen, has yet to succumb to the fragility of age. This is the dance of the litter picker, a choreography set to the music of rustling leaves and the distant hum of the everyday, a performance unnoticed by the audience it serves, yet vital to the stage it preserves.

In the darkened corners of Brailwood Close, where the fence line kisses the edge of Bilsthorpe Tip, lies a treasure trove of suburban archaeology. Here, the modern-day relics emerge from their earthen hideaways, as if to say, “Remember us?” The vacuum cleaner, once a domestic whirlwind, now lies silent amongst the foliage, its days of devouring dust bunnies long over. Road signs, which once stood as stoic guides to weary travellers, now recline against the greenery, their messages lost to the rust of time. Footballs, the leathered remnants of games past, huddle together like forgotten playthings of a giant’s children. And the poop bags, oh, the countless poop bags, a reminder of the many paws that have trotted this path, each one a signature of a tail-wagging journey.

The Haul

Fly-tipping, the scourge of casual littering, is a disgusting practice where waste is dumped illegally to avoid disposal costs. It’s like the waste decided to go on an unauthorized adventure, leaving the comfort of legally sanctioned bins to explore the wilds of the countryside or the urban jungle. The fence line has been fly tipped and the accumulated waste has piled one on top of another. But unlike an intrepid explorer, it doesn’t leave the place better than it found it. Instead, it’s up to eco-warriors armed with bags and a steely determination to restore order. Collecting five bags of dross is no small feat; it’s akin to fishing out five bags of naughty escapees trying to blend in with the landscape. And let’s not forget the half bag of recyclables – the ones with a conscience, perhaps, that almost made it to the right place. This isn’t just a clean-up; it’s a rescue mission from the grips of environmental villainy, a tale of triumph that even the most seasoned superhero would be proud of. So, here’s to the unsung heroes of the fly-tip clean-up, may your bags always be sturdy, and your spirits never waver.

Keep Recyclables Out of Landfill