The skies over Tula are about to throw a tantrum fit for a Greek tragedy. By Sunday evening and into Monday’s witching hours, the western wind will howl through the region like a scorned opera singer, reaching speeds of 12-17 meters per second—enough to send unsecured hats into orbit and rattle windows like a poltergeist with a grudge.
Emergency responders, those unsung heroes in orange gear, have issued a stark warning: treat this wind like a pickpocket in a crowded square. Parked cars? Keep them clear of trees, unless you fancy a surprise convertible conversion. Pedestrians? Give rickety structures a wide berth—this isn’t the day to test fate. Bridges, in particular, will turn into wind tunnels, where a single gust could make you feel like a character in a slapstick comedy, minus the laugh track.
Meanwhile, the region’s residents—normally preoccupied with May Day picnics and dodging dubious parenting advice—now face a meteorological curveball. It’s as if the weather itself decided to gatecrash the holiday, bringing chaos instead of casseroles.
So batten down the hatches, Tula. The wind isn’t just blowing—it’s rewriting the rules of outdoor decorum, one gust at a time.
