Every cloud has a silver lining ... No, of course I personally don't believe a word of it but it could be the motto of that eternal optimist The Mother.

On Sunday morning, for instance, when 80mph gales were lashing the Sussex countryside - and I was nervously monitoring the swaying, dipping, trees near my garden wall - The Mother decided that this was an ideal day to do the washing.

"The wind will have this lot dry in no time," she announced cheerfully, stripping the sheets off the beds and the towels from the bathroom.

"Wind?" I said. "Don't you know we've had a severe weather warning? That is a full force gale blowing out there, one that could uproot trees and cause structural damage."

The Mother remained undaunted. "It's still a good drying wind," she said and switched on the washing machine.

About 45 minutes later I was out in the back garden examining one of my trees for signs of movement.

"Why are you hugging that tree?" The Mother shouted as she came towards me dragging a laundry bag full of wet clothes.

"I'm making sure it's still stable, that the roots are holding firm," I explained.

"Oh, it's not that bad," said The Mother as the wind (sorry, gale) blew her against the rotary drier. "It's certainly not as bad as it was in 1987."

"How would you know?" I asked. "You slept through the Great Gale. You only realised what had happened when you found your TV aerial in next door's apple tree."

I went indoors leaving The Mother to fight what I assumed would be a losing battle against the elements.

The rotary drier spun like an out of control whirligig and I watched as she tussled with the washing, triumphantly pegging out a pair of pants while a skittish shirt sleeve slapped her face.

"Come in!" I shouted. "I've made some coffee and then I'm going for the papers."

The Mother came, or rather was flung, into the kitchen. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because that wind really is quite fierce, you might get blown over so I'll hold on to you," she replied.

"That is very kind, but how much do you weigh?" I asked her.

"A little over seven stones," she said. I reminded her that I was pushing ten so hardly needed any extra ballast.

I was out for about half an hour. When I returned the house seemed very quiet, apart from the gale whining and moaning around my chimney. There was no sign, or sound, of The Mother.

Feeling slightly apprehensive I went to the kitchen door and looked into the garden.

Outside the wind was having a fair old rant while the trees groaned and creaked. On the spinning rotary drier, washing was energetically thwacking washing and a climbing plant had been torn from its trellis.

"Hello! I'm back," I shouted but The Mother had gone.

I remembered 1987 when a neighbour's garden shed had completely disappeared, never to be seen again; when a friend's skylight had been whipped like tissue paper from her roof; when it was rumoured dogs and cats had been blown several feet into the air, like autumn leaves.

A tune started to form in my mind: "Somewhere over the rainbow, mothers fly ... "

But of course, she hadn't. She had been upstairs all along, locked in the bathroom enjoying a steamy soak.

"Where did you think I was?" she asked as she dried her hair.

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Gone with the wind I suppose ..."