Across the pond

Winter is rushing in this morning on the Dorset coast. Noisily. it got me out of bed at 6.30 AM. Blowing from the west bending trees to its will. Assaulting the flowers, struggling to hold on their petals for a few more weeks. I can just about see the beach. Two hardy holiday makers, standing a few feet apart, holding fishing rods in the rain. Determined to make the most of their stay-at-home holiday by the sea.

That’s nature for you.

But human beings are helping it along. The fat cat bloated capitalist footballers have already elbowed their way to our attention, kicking the cricketers off the front pages of the sports sections. I am going to have a nail-biting season because my team, Wolverhampton Wanderers, is back in the Premier League. But for how long? They were visited for the first match of the season by West Ham, a not-very-good London team who used to be in the third division when football was my driving passion. No Molyneux roar, but the Molyneux moan, which I can still hear in my head.  Not quite as harmful to the ear drums, but shivering every fibre of the body.

Hammered by the Hammers, two nil.

Thought I had better check the Wolves web site to see what they had to say for themselves. Amazement. They had played again on Tuesday, and I had not even noticed since I was struggling to meet an overdue deadline. They beat Wigan Athletic one nil and on their ground. Golly. The supporters must have been really whooping it up on Wigan Pier on Tuesday night.

Perhaps the season will be bearable after all.

The wind has dropped. The rain has stopped. A sea gull is flying around in front of the study window, swooping not sqawking.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside.