A couple of nights ago Chris and I moved upstairs to the biggest bedroom. Now that all the children have fled the nest (not wishing to make it sound like they were all desperate to go) we tend to do this every year when it starts to get cold enough for icicles to form under our noses whilst we sleep. The drop in temperatures coincided with another little nighttime problem I’ve been experiencing recently – I hardly know how to put it – several times now I’ve awoken to find red irritations and fang holes in my skin! Not big holes from big fangs (it isn’t a vampire bat), just small ones, uniformly about three millimetres apart, but they itch and stay for days or weeks. We didn’t find an enormous hairy spider when we pulled out the bed and hoovered up the dust – he must have been clinging on for dear life to the underside of the bed. On the plus side, I found a lost ring, a sock, a pair of thick bed-socks and half a packet of paracetamols (proving that I really do have a headache at bedtime on occasions!).

Upon awakening yesterday morning I looked out of the window only a few feet from my bed and saw the men in orange working on the sea wall below; it is a different view from the third storey bedroom – it’s slightly more remote than our usual ground floor bedroom. Many people would say that the higher vantage point affords a better view but we really prefer to be down where the action is. Although it has to be said that last night and this morning the upper bedroom had its fair share of action… from the storms outside, of course.

Who would have thought that the scene outside could be so different within a matter of hours? During the mid-afternoon yesterday (while I was eating my curds and whey) Chris called me out onto the terrace to see the beautiful golden clouds above the sea, which I photographed with my new, and speedy, Smartphone (of which I must try not to get addicted); it was a bit windy but nothing like the high winds that sprang up overnight.

This morning we lolled in bed for longer than usual; we heard the storm and we waited for some light before daring to open the curtains on the miserable day. The South Westerly gales made whistling sounds as they battered the windows and sneaked in through every tiny crack or airway. Huge waves, assisted by the wind, rose up and hit against the window near my bedside; I thought better of opening the window to photograph the scene.

After dressing I decided to go down to the bottom floor and venture into the open air in order to take more awe-inspiring shots of the waves as they crash into the sea wall (the water rises up like monumental crepe curtains). Having opened the double-glazed door I couldn’t shut it behind me for fear that the handle would break off in my hands, and even so, I may not have been strong enough or even heavy enough to do so (in spite of needing to diet). Drenched by the waves, I came back inside and fought for some time against the force of the wind in order to shut the door; the door mat had flown ten feet from its normal spot to the bottom of the stairs; the same wave of air-pressure had surged through the house and sent all my birthday cards flying from the bookcase in the hall and the mantelpiece in the lounge-room.

Hence, I didn’t manage to get those brilliant shots I had envisaged; and later, when I came out into my studio, I found an email awaiting me from my friend Sally in Cyprus; she was concerned for us because she had read about new damage to the sea wall at Dawlish. Luckily, the crack isn’t on the section of newly repaired wall in front of our house – I’ll attach the photograph featured in the “Mail online”.

“Did you find it a bit hot last night?” Chris asked me as we began to make the bed together.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Shall we take out one of the duvets?” I responded.

So we dismantled all the bedclothes and replaced the two duvets, which had been co-joined in the duvet cover, with a medium weight duvet; and at last the bed was to our liking. The upstairs bedroom is perhaps finer and grander than our bedroom, and yet, there was something on our minds. We both felt the same.

“You know, I could get hold of one of those trickle-heating heaters for not too much money – they don’t cost much to keep running constantly,” Chris suggested.

“So we could move back downstairs without freezing and without it costing a fortune to heat?” I asked.

“And we wouldn’t have to bring all our clothes and things upstairs,” Chris added with a man’s practicality.

We shall be moving back downstairs soon. I do so miss the exhilarating fresh air in our own bedroom but I’ll admit I’m a tad nervous of the fanged hairy creature that likes to ravish me at night – and I’m not talking about Chris!

Everything was coming up roses at book club this afternoon because baby Rosie, just eight weeks old, came along too (well you can’t start education too early!). During our book talk the darling girl was passed around to all and she didn’t make a peep. For a good while she snuggled up under my chin and had a nice sleep. I’m very comfy – no nasty hard bones to poke into her, which reminds me… the diet is no longer working.

Don’t worry about my sanity, you’ll see what I mean when you look at the photographs taken a little earlier. The “Orange Army” vanguard had taken position along the sea wall directly in front of our house even before we went to bed last night (this night – it’s still night) and the blazing lights outside cast an ethereal glow through our heavy curtains; the sounds of generators, men and machinery – thrumming, humming and clanking – though usual now, still prevented me from sleeping for an hour or two. Instead of counting sheep I tried to think of the sounds as music and eventually, I was lulled to sleep by the even closer, and more rhythmic, sound of Chris’s stentorious breathing (or snoring).

At four o’clock I was awoken suddenly by the invasion – I thought it was Judgement Day, Revenge of the Machines (as in the Terminators films). Our bedroom had become filled with an even greater light, which emanated from an enormous machine moving slowly along the railway track. I went to the window and saw perhaps thirty or more men, all wearing helmets and orange uniforms, and all turned my way, from their positions on the wall on the other side of the track. By the time I had returned with my Canon camera, the machine had moved on and the full regiment had dispersed into smaller marauding groups. Wearing only my convict-style onesie, I braved the elements to take these shots whilst Chris slept on, blissfully unaware of all the excitement.