So sue me for jumping on the bandwagon. Bath doesn’t see much in the way of snow and it gets the tiniest bit galling to turn on the news and see that the rest of the country’s been entirely blanketed with the stuff, utter chaos, not enough grit to go round, collapse of civilisation etc. Well, good for them, the lucky snow-getting bastards. And so I was delighted to turn on the local news yesterday lunchtime to be told by local weather forecaster Richard Angwin that we were about to be hit by the worst snow event in decades.
It’s not that I’m especially keen on snow. That I’m sitting indoors typing this instead of being out in the back garden making a full size snow Dalek should be evidence enough of that. The armchair discordian in me loves it, though. It fuels a kind of Blitz mentality in a nation where nothing that exciting really happens; the buses stop running, you can’t get to work, you don’t have anything for lunch and you may actually have to eat the cat.
I didn’t eat the cat. The cat really hates the snow. He encountered it last year and didn’t want anything to do with it, to the extent of actually using his litter tray rather than go outside.
After clearing snow off the steps in the front garden this morning, though, I decided to take pity on him and took the spade out the back, where I very kindly dug him a special cat trench from the kitchen door over to the hedge, so that he could get over there without having to put his dainty little paws in all that ghastly fucking white stuff.
Naturally he was thrilled and was straight out the kitchen door, trotting down his special cat trench like the happiest little cat in the world. One minute later…
Furry little ingrate. After recovering atop a radiator for half an hour he retired to the airing cupboard and I haven’t seen him since.
I should give that full size snow Dalek a go, really, but I know I’d only get cold and fed up before I’d finished sticking all those snowballs around the base.