Wuthering heights

When I first heard I was going to be working on the top floor of a large office block, I thought "Wow, classy, mate, Penthouse !"

Before long, I learned that not only was the word Penthouse a lot more acurate than I had thought when referring to this company, but also that being on the 7th floor of a building, on a hill, in a winder-than-average city is not always classy and fun.

Toulouse is half way across an isthmus.   That's a smaller strip of land between two larger land masses, for those who dozed off in geography.  It's in the middle of the bit that attaches France to Spain, in the big flat bit North of the pyrenees mountains.  Basically, this means it's in a wind tunnel. 

Seriously. 

They don't make planes here for nothing you know, they get to test the aerodynamics without having to take off, or pay for one of those fancy streamlining machines.  They leave the planes outside and point them into the wind.  If they manage not to get blown away after 30 minutes, they're good to sell.

And up here, on the top floor of the highest building on one of the minor bumps on the plain, the wind whistling is not just a pretty image.  It's bloody annoying.  It howls and moans and whines all day like a guy with manflu or a stubbed toe.  Except of course that eventually, guys get over it and don't whine quite so much, whereas the wind just keeps on a-blowin.