| Tuesday, January 07, 2003 |
 | Well well - only yesterday, returning by the last train from Andy's farewell do (doubtless we all wish him well in his journey to Barcelona, and his concomitant goat-strangling hangover), I was thinking to myself that one thing I missed about living in London was snow. The temperature within the city generally being higher by a few degrees than the countryside, (if countryside is the word we're looking for to describe the blighted, blasted wastelands that, beloinclothed wild boy that I was, I made my stalking grounds as a a child. You can stop imagining me in a loincloth now. Oh, hang on. No. You can't. How often do you get to reveal yourself as both physically and morally hideous in a single fell swoop, eh?) snowfall seems a pretty rare occurence, as against the perfect fields of thick white emptiness the young man might pour himself into and beneath.
And lo and behold, it's bloody snowed. At lunchtime I shall take a walk, and swing my cane at the branches of trees, at least until somebody calls the police. I can already feel the pale, clean smell in my nose. And my toes are going numb.
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