Once we started naming storms, we couldn’t help but furnish them with plots and backstories. We’d note the destruction wreaked by Barry, but What, we’d ask, wringing our hands, could he do after an upbringing like that? Jodie, on the other hand, was a wrong ‘un through and through, and parents, priests, and politicians looking to score easy points with a scandalised public would crease their brows and make unambiguous gestures of disapproval, while wayward teens mussed their hair in imitation and stamped in front of the mirror, dreaming of the day that they could rip up trees and rip the roofs right off suburban houses. The names entered common banter: A bit of a Nigel, or A complete Wendy would ring in the ears of disgraced kids from classmates and teachers alike. And then, of course, as we should have seen coming though nobody did, concerned citizens turned their ire on Gordons, Irenes and those bastard Oscars, as although they’d been named back when a storm was just a storm, surely they must have been up to something all along. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Doors are kicked in in the middle of the night. I am not – and never have been – called Paul.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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