My name is Mary. I am a secretary in a large company in Brighton. I live in a small village about seven miles from my office. It takes me half an hour to drive to work and another ten minutes to park my car. I sometimes leave my car at home and take the train, but only on very cold winter days when there is ice on the roads. I always leave home at eight o'clock.

One morning on Friday, 6th October 1987, I was late for work. Many people were late for work on that terrible day. The first signs of trouble had appeared the evening before while I was in the village pub with my husband Peter. There were very high winds, far stronger than normal for the time of year. Even the weather forecasters were caught unawares. As we made our way home, we were nearly blown over.

Further horror was yet to come. We put the telly on in our bedroom but the picture was too hazy to see. The wind pounded mercilessly on the bay windows. Luckily our new double-glazing was able to withstand the pressure, but half an hour later as we lay in bed, we thought that the whole front wall was about to give way.

We held our breath as we listened to the orchestra of smashed tiles, broken chimney pots and clattering dustbin lids in the street outside. We drew the thick velvet curtains, our last line of defence against an angry wind which was busy uprooting trees, overturning cars and demolishing buildings. I gripped Peter's hand tightly. Just before two in the morning we finally managed to fall asleep.

We were up at six o'clock the next morning.

The wind was still howling though not as fiercely as before. We turned on the portable radio to learn what had happened. Many pylons and cables had been blown down. We were very relieved when the water in our kettle started to boil. Happily there were few fatalities, but damage to forestry, plant-life and buildings was massive.

The official advice was to stay indoors, but ignoring the perils of falling masonry and unstable tree trunks, I decided to go to work. There were some reports to finish, which had to be mailed that day. The way through the village to the main road was an unrecognizable tangle of fallen trees. I threaded my way through this unknown jungle to the main road where I managed to hitch a lift into the outskirts of Brighton. I had to continue on foot stepping gingerly over broken branches. A third of the town's magnificent oak and elm trees had been torn to pieces. Telephone boxes had been ripped up from the pavement and bowled over. I contented myself with the thought that there was no need to phone the office. I was not the only one in this predicament and I might even be the first to arrive.