The once firmly tied parasol is dancing free in a tarantella of madness. Chairs are strewn beneath the table it covers when the heat rises to unmanageable peaks.

There is little point in wasting energy to reel it in, even if I had the breath and strength to do so. Every swirl of the storm pushes the breath back into my body and my poor lungs panic at the inrush.

At least it’s daylight now. Soon after midnight the electricity went off as Marcel – the name of our latest tempete – battered the house, insinuating itself under corner and crack of every shutter.

Fortunately I was ready for bed so could feel my way into its safe arms. With Cesar settled by my feet, even the lack of my night light brought no worries.

It’s strange how, especially for someone who has such a childish fear of the dark, that once there is no way to dispel it, one settles into a calm acceptance. (Well, calm if you don’t count cursing EDF, which seems to hold the European record for outages.) It is just as well for we are facing another night without electricity.

This morning, before I gave up trying to open the shutters against the force of the gale, I caught a glimpse of the devastation wrought.

Two 45ft-tall evergreens, shelter for all manner of creatures, lay flat on the side lawn. The 30ft-tall eucalyptus, which has recovered after previous storms, had gone again, smashing the fence surrounding the dog’s compound and blocking the drive.

Alistair the gardener may well, as he has in the past, be able to rope and pull the evergreens back upright, lashing them to the tree equivalent of crutches. Somehow, even looking at them from the distance of the window, I have my doubts this time. The eucalyptus is a goner and will be chain-sawed once it is safe enough to work outdoors.

Through the window into the covered courtyard I can see planks of cladding that have been ripped off the gable end.

Storms visit here off and on and it still surprises me that they do. In fact so surprised am I that I am never prepared. A slender handbag torch is my sole means of light.

Not long after I arrived here I was housebound for four days as a storm created havoc all around me. Warmed by the wood-burner and candles lit in all rooms I surprised myself by coping. Perhaps there’s a sense of security in knowing that no burglars or people of evil intent would venture out in such conditions.

Of course when it comes to problems and service, life always falls apart in France and simply reporting a power failure requires documents in triplicate, mother’s birth certificate, proof of habitation.

Well, not quite, but before reporting it is important to have various numbers found on your bill. Bill? I don’t keep such things as it’s taken monthly from my bank account.

In the end it didn’t matter, for every time – after long, long stretches of holding on – just as I got the click to denote they had picked up the call they hung up.

It’s a national sport for French call centres. Let the poor sod think they’re almost there and then … bang.

Oh, and there is no point reporting anything unless you have a French mobile and not a neighbour’s either. Fortunately I do so that’s one obstacle removed.

A call to Pierrot reassures me that the whole of the commune is out but hopefully may be restored later today. “Have you phoned them with your numbers?” he asks.

“Haven’t got any numbers and anyway they keep hanging up,” I say. “But if they know the commune’s down then I’ll be part of that, won’t I?”

There’s a pause. A long pause. “Surely they wouldn’t just leave my house without light because they don’t have my security numbers, would they?” I ask with a rising edge of panic.

Pierrot’s long sigh lets me know that anything is possible with EDF.

The wind has eased just enough for Cesar to be put in his compound. With fur flying he’s like a flag being whipped around the paddock, almost ceremonial in its weaving. But I shall have to trust him to run inside without a lead as the gusts are too fierce to manage both gate and him.

I just paused this piece to do so.

Trust is not in the dog’s vocabulary. He has gone, kicking his heels off into the fields and to God knows where.

As always Pierrot rides to the rescue. He has found him not too far up the road and has used his car to guide him back in.

He brings good news too. EDF workers are busying repairing the “cut” line that has caused all the trouble.

“Seriously, will they know I’m off too, even without my numbers?” I ask him.

He shrugs his camouflaged shoulders and gives me a look of sympathy. When he uses both hands as well, raising them in a gesture of futility, I know he doesn’t have the answer.

Logically I know I’ll be treated the same as the rest. But this is France and logic has nothing to do with it.

We sigh in unison.