Day 339. Where the wind blows. (5/12/13)

There was a night like this when we lived in Leeds. Round about this time of year if I recall correctly. Weather warnings, gale force winds, lashing rain.

We lived on top of a hill on the edge of South Leeds between the village of Rothwell and Belle Isle, the most ironically named area in Britain. Our small nest of streets was surrounded by open fields on pretty much all sides. The skies were incredible, clear and festooned with constellations. When it snowed it really snowed. Winds, when they came (and they came often) were amplified by the location.

We had been to see Ian McNabb at the Duchess of York. I loved the Duchess, proper gig venue - small, old, bit grubby in a good way, saw some fantastic bands there; Pulp way before fame hit, The Wedding Present on a night when Gedge claimed that they played there every Saturday night to see whether the new batch of students were gullible enough to go for it, the Bunnymen in their post McCulloch days, American Music Club on a night when we got bored and watched Arsenal on the telly in the corner instead, the Real People when they arrived after us and asked me where I'd got their T-Shirt from and on this night Ian McNabb.

The gig was obviously excellent and at the end of the night we drove home.

Now, we never used the front door of the house; the garage was slightly off the road behind us with a small set of steps down to the garden and a path to the kitchen door so, for the four years that we lived there, we would park the car and use the kitchen as our entrance.

On this night, with the weather obviously utterly vile, I was parking the car (stop in front of garage, get out of car, open garage, get in car, drive into garage, stop car, get out of car, exit garage, close door) while J hurried ahead to the door. Unfortunately the only door key that we had was on the same ring as the car keys so she stood and shivered on the step in the cold and the rain and, most urgently, the howling gale that swept across the backs of the houses.

And that is when the tile flew off the roof.

It fell flat, right across the top of J's head and split in half. J took a couple of steps forward and sat down in the centre of our small, surprisingly neat, garden. Her legs folded beneath her into a crossed position as though her strings had been cut and she had crumpled.

She was talking in an oddly calm manner. Far too calm for somebody that had just suffered a head injury from a piece of slate. I checked for blood. I don't remember there being any. Our obvious thought was fracture so we drove to the hospital. Leeds General Infirmary I think although it could equally have been 'Jimmy's' of TV documentary fame. I think we spent quite a while there that night. No obvious external damage but X-Rays were required. Other tests as well, nothing that we would get the results of that night.

So we spent (what....a week?) worrying about the possibility of internal damage, internal bleeds, bruising to the brain, all the possible hideous eventualities.

A visit to our GP proved an all clear for everything. Our relief driving back into work was such that I didn't notice the flashing blue lights in the rear view mirror until I was pulled over and instructed that I had been driving at 50 miles an hour in a 30 zone. Thirty pound fine and three points, small price to pay.

The slate fell flat. Obviously I never think about what would have happened if the wind had brought it down on its edge.