Fifteen feet of pure white snow

"Aah, Winter. Lovely Winter. Lovely, lovely Wint..." [skid] "yikes" [thud, crack] "[thinks] oh dear"
[sirens]
"It's no good, he's paralysed from the nostrils up"
"[eyes pleading] kiiill...meeee"

The snow is coming to get you. No, really, it is. Again. So we're all fucked. Again. A fortnight ago we opened the curtains (or in my case, twiddled the stick that opens the blind) and 'yippee'd about the place as we had forgotten the pain in the arse that snow causes. Literally. Today we opened (or twiddled) the curtains (or blind) and our shoulders slumped to carpet level. No longer thinking 'hooray, we can build a snowman like when we were kids' but instead, "bollocks, this is going to be worse than an infected hemorrhoid in a couple of days". We've enjoyed the nice Raymond Briggsy bit but we've also been reminded that skidding along the pavement is both less fun and more perilous than a pool party at Barrymore Towers. I suppose 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger', but snow makes you break your neck, and in case you didn't learn anything from 'Superman 5: The Quest for Better Stirrups', that might as well kill you even if it doesn't manage to actually kill you.

So, my advice, stay home. Like an old person. Or an unemployed person. Or a Fritzl child. Funnily enough, I noticed in yesterday’s Metro ‘Pensioners burn books for warmth’. Maybe the Nazis weren’t so bad after all. Maybe they were just cold.


(Oh yes, Happy New Year.)