The full moon was on the 7th, but either it was cloudy or I was deep, deep dreaming. Last night it seemed so bright that whatever I did I couldn’t avoid being woken by it. Some might say I should have pulled the curtains, and maybe so. But I didn’t: I opened the window, shoved my phone out and got this evocative—werewolf howling—snap.
This, of course, doesn’t obviate the need for shopping. One simply has to trudge and bear it—which is better than beering and staggering it, I suppose. And much, much better than Vodka and crawling. Me, I’d stone and float it if I had a choice, but I don’t. Waaay too long in the tooth for that sort of malarkey. Also, I don’t know anyone to turn me on. Sad, but true.
One thing that does turn me on and is totally without the need for a dealer (unless, that is, you count Murdoch’s Sky as a dealer), is F1. All the big teams (except Mercedes) have released their cars now, and all of them, except McLaren, have an ugly step down just after the monocoque and before the nose. Simply speaking the McLaren is beautiful and none of the others are: which is worrying. It’s worrying because I’m now thinking maybe McLaren have gone done a boo-boo. Maybe the hideous step is vital: after all, Red Bull have one, and they’re hardly slouchily slow. Oh dear. 😦
It’s just past 2:30am on the 5th February and it’s snowing!
I love snow. For the first few minutes it takes me back to my childhood and snowdays when school was cancelled and I could get wrapped up warm, go outside, thunder about building snow-men, get soaking wet and come back in to sit infront of a fire and have a hot bath. It’s good to get all snowed up and then, wuzzly warm, go to bed. And it’s especially good, nay, it’s the best, if it snows on Christmas eve: Christmas morning with fresh deep snow is wonderful! There’s nothiing like it. It’s special, magical, and produces wonderful memories.
So, I love snow … for the first few minutes. Then it becomes a pain in the arse. Plans change. Life changes, and quite possibly Swiss Buns double in price.
I had to go out and about this morning, as you do. Wrapped up to the nines I was, with fleece under Berghaus (note how I’m a groovy brand concious dude). Anyway, sadly, said Berghaus only reached just past my groin and, though it’s entirely waterproof, the lashing rain had to go somewhere, that somewhere being my jeans. So, half sodden I was as I walked to get milk (can’t say cigarettes as I’m giving up).
Halfway down the hill – just by the cutting at the bottom of which is the railway station – the wind picked up. I had to cling to the railings for a couple of minutes as other pedestrians were whisked by me, up the hill, by their inside-out umbrellas. During this fence clinging episode I heard various crashing sounds, but thought nothing of them – you don’t do you? Gunshots I might have noticed, but even then, what with the wind and all, probably not.
So. The wind dies down and I continue walking. A little further down the hill, on the pavement, is a load of cement lumps and shards freshly blown off a building. Further on still and the entire signage for a grocery store lies across my path. I began to wonder, had I not clung to the railing for that short while, would I would have been mashed under it. Would I have become a lasting reminder of the decline of small grocery shops and foul British winter weather?