At least I was able to catch up on emails and unearth the festive faux fir from the darker recesses of the garage.
This morning, with the south easterly wind backing off to gentler, if not totally benign, thirty miles per hour gusts, I risked a peek out of the front door. Sporadic showers are still racing through, so visibility isn't great, but I could see that the garden had taken a beating. Vegetation is uniformly canted over to the north west, whilst patches of grass show signs of wind and salt burn, as well as a few vortex marks where the wind has swirled around against an obstacle.
And one other lingering sign was noticeable, as the memory of the wind howl faded from my ears. In the channel between mainland and Lamb Holm, the waves, driven on by 24 hours of gale, were still dissipating, producing an incongruous image with the local post box.