Doesn't seem like five minutes since our first storm with a name blew through. It was, I am convinced, named after my granddaughter, Abigail, who frankly, deserves to have a storm named after her, and this is a compliment, as a little further down the alphabet, Storm Mary will breeze in. Thank you, storm namers, I accept the accolade.
I shouldn't be taking this lightly. I doubt I would, had Desmond wreaked the havoc here in the South West, that it did in Cumbria.
Years ago I read reports that the reality of climate change would be extreme events at more frequent intervals. And here we are, Desmond not yet cleaned up after, and Eva whistling in the wings.
Estimates of anywhere between 60 and 200 million refugees from climate change - men women and children forced to leave their homes because of drought or deluge. Where will they go? Will you, or I be among them? It's not beyond the bounds of probability.
In 1988, in London, I was awakened by The Great Storm that flattened forests and raised roofs across much of southern England. I have some enduring memories of that night. Me, checking out the bible, Ray, my husband, eyeing up the insurance policy; the Anglia Windows promotional caravan tipped over onto a Porche; frightened dogs cowering under cars; extortionate prices charged by unscrupulous builders for emergency repairs. Above all, I remember the outbreak of neighbourliness as communities pulled together to help those who suffered most.
We're going to need a whole lot more of good- neighbourliness with that many people to take care of.