Be a Russian in the snow

Last night before going to bed I looked out of the window. It was snowing and a continuous unceasing flurry. As it rested all was quiet. The only witness was orange glowing street lighting. It settled like a soft feathered duvet, about two inches thick. I could see the edge of the curb as the only point which defined the road from the pavement. It was a little funny how a twinge of excitement came over as I wondered whether getting to the Fish Factory in the morning would be a problem. But this question was pretty much stumped before it had a chance to get anywhere. The men from the Council had put grit and salt on the pavements earlier in the evening. When the snow was just a weather forecast away, or a dandruff speckle on a big mop of brunette hair. On this occasion the weatherman was right.

In the morning as I got ready to leave I listened intently to the radio. A hypocritical talk show host began blethering his usual tripe. Especially on how nobody does anything to help anyone nowadays and how you could find yourself on the end of a solicitors claim if you cleared the snow at the front of your house and someone slipped. This was the kind of guy who would go out of his way looking for something to slip on. The kind who festers on depression and fish wife tittle tattle. But I still listened, hoping maybe he would get his own comeuppance as the forces of Karma would work themselves into some random statistical event. Something like watching one of those horror movies where the incarnation of "death" is out to get the pretty teen actors.

The white stuff didn't gain much more momentum, so I made my way into the Fish Factory via my local train station. Half running with care and half walking, because I didn't want to fall on my face. The radio presenter might of caste his own reverse spell on me. I wore my fashionable Russian hat, which everyone should wear. It did the trick because although the chilled air placidly parted, there was little effect on my ears as the flaps kept them warm. It was zero degrees but I felt quite hot. Later I even sent a picture of me in my hat to Sparkling, she sent a one word reply, "Noooooooo." For some reason Sparkling doesn't care much for my sense of flare. So what? I am a vanguard icon, tuh. This weather was nothing like what I had endured a week earlier up in Scotland where in the night it had dropped to minus 15 Celsius in some places. I had put my camera in a coat pocket and took a quick picture of a foot print in the snow. My boot and the cat. Tigger had been here before me.

(Just a note to those who may not know, when taking a picture in the snow you have to over expose the image by up to two stops otherwise the camera will try and average out the white and so give you a grayish looking image. Vary the over exposure it till you have what you want.)

When I reached the train station I found there were going to be delays. The platform was starting to get crowded and I thought to myself, if this station was crowded the stops prior would of been just as packed. There would be no seats, but worse still it was going to resemble a human sardine can. When the train slid into the station the doors silently opened and a bottle neck of commuters crammed themselves through the space onto the carriage. We were standing close to each other, pretty much cramped. No one had eaten garlic this morning, or had a curry breakfast, fortunately. Although I like sardines once in a while at breakfast I didn't realise life was going to imitate tinned food so aptly. I had to keep my head and realised the situation just had to be accepted. Then to relax and above all not panic. Having a panic attack this moment would be the worse possible thing to happen. With a bit of cognitive shuffling I pushed the thought under a carpet then extracted myself after one stop. I had successfully made it in. Faced the elements and was not held back.

Now if I come into the Fish Factory tomorrow, will I get a medal?