Most Of What Follows Is True

It was very windy here last night. And when you live in a house as tall as this one, you can really feel that wind, you know? I lay in the dark, wondering if the basketball hoop would make it through the night, and listening to the sounds of  The Accountant snor sleeping peacefully beside me. And I drifted back to another windy night many years ago; when The Accountant wasn't yet an accountant and I was still a student. We were camping close to Hadrian's Wall, sleeping on an inflatable mattress, under canvas. In a tornado. At least that's what it felt like and, oh, it was bleak. That's what the Roman soldiers loathed about the place, of course. They used to write home for extra socks. I had my extra socks on that night and a jumper too. Maybe even a hat. And as I winced at the sound of the wind toying with the tent pegs, I wondered how the horses felt. For this site was on part of a race course, on a hill.
Did they enjoy running in this wind? It sounded far too much like a school Games lesson on a really bad day. Cross country. On the worst days we were sent on the descriptively named "abbatoir run". I'm pretty sure the horses wouldn't have fancied that one. I shuddered and rolled over  and very soon this morning arrived.

It was still windy. "Maybe," said The Tall One, hopefully, "The pitches will be frozen and rugby will be cancelled."
"Frozen pitches? Frozen pitches? A few brisk circuits round the gym is what you need, lad," said his Dad.
"Ah, but Dad," said The Tall One loftily, "the problem there is - you're not really in touch with what the people want."

There's a scrapbook page in there somewhere, if I can find it.