The UK’s been bracing itself for a massive storm for several days now. As I lie in bed psyching myself up for the day ahead, the big trees I can see from my window are blowing about wildly. They don’t look like a rolling ocean today, more like hyped-up rockers banging their big heads frantically to their favourite tune.

It’s Monday, it’s 7am, and the rain’s pounding down. Very rarely do I dislike my job, but right now the idea of leaving my warm bed to go and work outdoors all day on our adventure playground’s half-term playscheme is distinctly unappealing.

I’ve had a restless night. I was woken in the early hours, not by the storm outside, but by a storm of tics. Olive, my night-time support worker, came and helped me through a 45-minute ‘ticcing fit’. As my body swirled about on my bed I could hear the world outside swirling too.

Unsurprisingly my tics had something to say about the storm and Olive skilfully juggled priorities as she wrote them down and kept me safe in bed at the same time. Here’s what I had to say at 3am this morning:

“The lamp-post hasn’t got any water wings.”
“Lamp-post, have you got damp socks?”
“Lamp-post, shall I get your fleece onesy?”
“Get the lamp-post a life jacket.”
“Let’s go bowling with chimneys.”
“October, you’re looking shabby around your hedgerows.”
“October, go and live in a silent retreat in Wales.”
“Rain, you sound like an old snake hissing in a gravel pit.”

A few minutes ago I was unimpressed by the prospect of getting up, but now I can feel my enthusiasm increasing as I think about the extra layer of fun my tics are likely to add to the day ahead. I find wind ridiculously over exciting so I’m confident that whatever the day has in store it won’t be boring and will be accompanied by more involuntary commentary.

I’ll keep you posted, but for now stay safe, keep as dry as possible and I’ll try to do the same.