The ice-rink that surrounded us on all sides finally retreated this week to reveal water hazards and blown pipes that flashed back to ice as the temperature plummeted again after dark. During our last snowfall on Thursday night there was enough ground cover for my dear darling husband to snowboard all the way down the garden, trudge back up and slide back down again for half an hour before he limped in with a twisted knee after the inevitable minor injury.
The garden is now swimming in mud and walking across the divide to the in-laws' last night each footstep crunched then squelched as our footfalls broke the icy crust and sank into the sucking mud beneath. Having gingerly crackled our way to the relative safety of the hard-standing I was startled by the spectre of a ghostly shape loping across the lawn in a fluid charge of alarming speed; a charge that ended with the idiot greyhound belonging to the in-laws taking me out at the knees in abject adoration and greeting me in a jubilant display of affection and a terrifying lack of anything vaguely resembling a brain.
Having herded FIL out of the house and into the car we careened down the toboggan run that has replaced the road and had a splendid meal at the Olde Dog. The evening was enlivened with the usual stories of past indiscretions followed by FIL's assertion that the mash was crap. This was delivered to the poor waitress alongside the statement that he hates mash anyway except when MacDonalds use Smash to thicken their milkshakes. . . one of his core beliefs that I still hotly dispute but cannot disprove.
Following an extended and bloody internal struggle against temptation I capitulated and ordered the home-made apple pie and ice-cream. Knowing it was my husband's birthday the chef kindly provided us with two enormous slabs of pie; soft, sweet apple slices in a thick, rich puree surrounded by stunning pastry. The apple on my plate steamed as it met a riven flow of molten ice-cream in an unholy union of all things wonderful whilst the husband's portion was sadly rendered foul and inedible (to me at least) by the stinking, foetid, non-newtonian layer of yellow evil commonly known as custard smothering the life out of it (yuck).
So today has been a lazy one as my digestion continues to ponder just how much apple pie it is safe to eat in one sitting. Far too much pc time was broken only to prepare a sumptuous stew for our dinner and for the delightful spectacle of the Wales England rugby. . .
REJECTION KILLS. DISAPPOINTMENT ONLY MAIMS - ABBY BARNES, THE TRUTH ABOUT CATS AND DOGS
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Monday, 2 February 2009
Smother the Earth with Snow. . .
How do you stop the economical and social capital of Britain dead in it's tracks? Drop a foot of snow overnight and watch the comedy ensue. . .
I live in what they call a semi-rural area (i.e. some of the farms still function and trees are protected but there's a walloping great oil refinery belching flame on the river and a main route to London slashing its sodium illuminated tarmac path through the fields) yet it seems we have coped with the weather rather better than the biggest city in the land. Sheesh.
Despite the evil white layer of negative force lying across the land I dragged my sorry carcass off the couch this morning to sit muffled next to my deadly beloved he-thing as he drove into work. I knew the notorious London public transport would not be able to cope and decided that an obscenely early morning was worth the hassle-free journey to the office.
Sadly our 40 minute sojourn became a belaboured and bedraggled 2 and a quarter hour drag as we crawled through accumulated slush and automotive stupidity, bypassing any hint of an incline as a panicked highways agency slammed cordons on the terrors of gentle slopes that had somehow morphed into insurmountable humps of Himalayan proportion by the simple addition of a handspan of snow.
On reaching the office (having been dropped in the drift-covered layby and slogged through the frozen wastes of Upper Bank Street) I found a mere smattering of colleagues littered across the floor in various states of vacuous excitement at the fluffy white nonsense that fell from the sky. I admit I joined in as we gently gravitated toward each other sharing our tales of who from quests to reach HQ. By noon it was clear little was to be done and even those few colleagues remaining drifted away again and, wrapped in multitudinous layers of wool and synthetic comfort, barrelled their way into the lifts and down to freedom.
By 1:10 the announcement was out - all 'non-essentials' to go home, tuck up and dial in over VPN. Phones divert to mobile and go sit it out. . . The final hardy remnants let out a tiny cheer of defiance and in misty memories of sitting by the radio in the wee hours just waiting for them to announce your school was one of the lucky ones shut up tight against the snow, make their own slow path to outside.
I used my time well, raiding Waitrose for meat and mead to see us through the arctic chill. The whole of the Wharf seems to be fraught with a strange, underlying buzz of excitement - I've never seen so many people smile and laugh in these subterranean passages and feel the edges of paranoia as I wonder if perhaps I have something unpleasant on my face and in fact the strange humour is directed at me. In fact is seems that snow = childhood = giggling behind hands and breaking into spontaneous smiling. Curiouser and curiouser . . .
So here I sit. Waiting for the he-thing to be released back into the wild, to remember to call me before he leaves the office as he in classic style left his mobile at home, and to pick me up at the sad little MacDonalds on Trafalgar Way. There's the phone now, my turn to make a slow and steady run for it!
AT THE PRESS OF A BUTTON, I COULD SMOTHER THE EARTH WITH SNOW, DROWN IT IN RAIN, WRECK IT WITH GALES, AND CLOAK IT WITH FOG - BARON GREENBACK, DANGERMOUSE
I live in what they call a semi-rural area (i.e. some of the farms still function and trees are protected but there's a walloping great oil refinery belching flame on the river and a main route to London slashing its sodium illuminated tarmac path through the fields) yet it seems we have coped with the weather rather better than the biggest city in the land. Sheesh.
Despite the evil white layer of negative force lying across the land I dragged my sorry carcass off the couch this morning to sit muffled next to my deadly beloved he-thing as he drove into work. I knew the notorious London public transport would not be able to cope and decided that an obscenely early morning was worth the hassle-free journey to the office.
Sadly our 40 minute sojourn became a belaboured and bedraggled 2 and a quarter hour drag as we crawled through accumulated slush and automotive stupidity, bypassing any hint of an incline as a panicked highways agency slammed cordons on the terrors of gentle slopes that had somehow morphed into insurmountable humps of Himalayan proportion by the simple addition of a handspan of snow.
On reaching the office (having been dropped in the drift-covered layby and slogged through the frozen wastes of Upper Bank Street) I found a mere smattering of colleagues littered across the floor in various states of vacuous excitement at the fluffy white nonsense that fell from the sky. I admit I joined in as we gently gravitated toward each other sharing our tales of who from quests to reach HQ. By noon it was clear little was to be done and even those few colleagues remaining drifted away again and, wrapped in multitudinous layers of wool and synthetic comfort, barrelled their way into the lifts and down to freedom.
By 1:10 the announcement was out - all 'non-essentials' to go home, tuck up and dial in over VPN. Phones divert to mobile and go sit it out. . . The final hardy remnants let out a tiny cheer of defiance and in misty memories of sitting by the radio in the wee hours just waiting for them to announce your school was one of the lucky ones shut up tight against the snow, make their own slow path to outside.
I used my time well, raiding Waitrose for meat and mead to see us through the arctic chill. The whole of the Wharf seems to be fraught with a strange, underlying buzz of excitement - I've never seen so many people smile and laugh in these subterranean passages and feel the edges of paranoia as I wonder if perhaps I have something unpleasant on my face and in fact the strange humour is directed at me. In fact is seems that snow = childhood = giggling behind hands and breaking into spontaneous smiling. Curiouser and curiouser . . .
So here I sit. Waiting for the he-thing to be released back into the wild, to remember to call me before he leaves the office as he in classic style left his mobile at home, and to pick me up at the sad little MacDonalds on Trafalgar Way. There's the phone now, my turn to make a slow and steady run for it!
AT THE PRESS OF A BUTTON, I COULD SMOTHER THE EARTH WITH SNOW, DROWN IT IN RAIN, WRECK IT WITH GALES, AND CLOAK IT WITH FOG - BARON GREENBACK, DANGERMOUSE
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