Frightful

I have now realised something about myself.

I am a total wuss.

However, I am currently a total wuss with no broken limbs to my name. This fact does vaguely take the sting out of my wussiness, and helps me ignore the horn-toots and yells of "get out of the way you fat wanker" when I'm walking in the road in an attempt not to slip, fall and break my bottom on the pavement.

In case you didn't realise, it's icey out.

Not that I didn't leap out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a puppy in field of slippers when it snowed. But then it squashes down, freezes again, melts a bit, freezes again, gets drizzled on and freezes again. At which point my enthusiasm wanes faster than if I attended a party where the buffet is entirely Marmite based.

I like wandering about, it's easily the most relaxing way to travel and this will continue to be the case until fellatio becomes a mode of transport. So knowing that wherever I choose to wander will involve neither a purposeful stride, manly strut or sedate amble, but instead an undignified penguin waddle interspersed with sudden lunges towards fences, car mirrors and old ladies as my feet skid on some frozen stuff removes the relaxation like it's a bloated appendix. Fences are fine to grab onto of course, but there is little hope that a wingmirror will survive a plummeting bear. And as for landing on an osteoporosis riddled old lady I fear I'd be describing the feeling of 206 aged bones shattering beneath me to an army of therapists for many years to come.

Presumably this is covered in a deleted scene of 'Holiday Inn', in which Bing Crosby falls on his arse, much to Fred Astaire's hilarity. At which point Bing picks himself up and totters towards him, eerily intoning 'White Christmas' through clenched teeth before burying a tap-shoe in his cheery face.