I'm snowed off. Christmas and New Years Eve both ruined by the necessity of riding a trailer endowed quad bike filled with turkeys, presents, luggage, complaining Great Aunts, and litre bottles of whisky up a steep hill liberally festooned with glaciers.
Why must my guests insist on tramping all over the white stuff? It turns into the sort of impacted ice that a pick axe will merrily bounce off and perform a frontal lobotomy.
And then one of them complained because his foul BMW 4 by 4 slid onto the bank despite his skilful use of his low ratio gearbox. He had a low ratio brain having been told in no uncertain terms not to attempt the ascent. Yes, knobs do drive BMW's. I left him to the RAC.
My purple lined suede Hush Puppies have been ruined by the slush, the local shop has run out of booze because supply van drivers keep driving into snowdrifts and dying from hypothermia, and my meals on wheels service has been suspended indefinitely.
Snow?
Fuck it, I'm off to roast some nuts in Malawi. Preferably my own as they have been shrivelling alarmingly due to this perpetual cold.
About Bob Dylan
4 days ago
4 comments:
The snow has finally hit the south, which means that it's not exactly three feet deep but suddenly there is wall to wall coverage of the "weather and traffic chaos" on the bloody television. I wish I could escape to Malawi, but I should imagine the airports are closed.
Happy new year, by the way. My Bloglines feed had only decided to show your last three posts today for some reason (probably due to weather conditions).
I read that the Tyne has frozen. Soup and an extra muffler for you guys.
Betty
Soft Southerner. You probably write letters to the Guardian complaining that you landed on your arse on an icy pavement because of Thatcher.
Don't try scrounging any salt of the Scots. They've run out.
Arabella
'Fog on the Tyne, it's all mine, all mine'.
Aye. Freezing fog bonnylad.
Well I'm currently snowed in too down in sunny Oxford if that's any consolation.
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