I have decided I don’t like snow.

There is probably some algebraic formula that proves how liking of snow is an inverse function of age, but I can’t be bothered to look for it now.

It’s trying very unsuccessfully to snow here at the moment.  There is a fraction of an inch of slush on the ground which is doubtless enough to grind the country to a standstill.  There is just enough white out there to look fucking cold and to remind me that this is winter, but not enough to look pretty or to make snowballs to chuck at passing strangers.

The Irish have a pathetic relationship with snow.  We must be the only country in the world where everything stops at the first sign of the white stuff.  Trains, buses, airports and private cars all come to a slithering halt.  Schools and shops all close and the place takes on a deathly silence just because someone, somewhere has seen a snowflake.

Naturally any motorist who does venture out is going to drive at five miles per hour down the middle of the road despite the road being snow free and just wet. 

No doubt the councils have been out throwing tons of salt around the place to corrode all the cars.  What is this thing about salt?  It’s expensive.  It has to be imported.  They have to build great stockpiles of the stuff.  Why the fuck can’t they use ordinary sand and grit that worked perfectly for generations and is so plentiful it is almost free?

I have to nip down to the village later.  I will probably be gone for several hours.  I have a feeling that as soon as I arrive there they will close all the roads – just in case – and I won’t be able to get back.


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An inverse function — 15 Comments

  1. Well, if you make it down to the village and can't get back I'm sure the pub will be open.


    And, by the way, don't they actually mix the salt into the grit?

    • Of course the pub will be open.  Some things are sacred in this village.

      I have no idea about salt cocktails, but you can be sure the councils use the most expensive method possible, so they probably use highly refined unadulterated table salt.

  2. About the salt question Grandad – during the last big freeze in 2010 I though it hilarious that we were importing salt from Egypt when the largest salt mine in these here parts is up in Norn Iron

    • Even more insane – when they ran out of salt they were offered free grit by some quarry owners and they refused to take it.

      • ‘Hereabouts died a very gallant gentleman, Captain L. E. G. Oates, of the Inniskilling Dragoons. In March 1912, returning from the Pole, he walked willingly to his death in a blizzard, to try and save his comrades, beset by hardships.’

        I have never forgotten this – read it when I was ten years old. A few flakes scattered hither and yon … I always think of old Oates.

  3. The Indians asked their chief if winter was going to be cold.


    Not really knowing, the chief replied it would be cold with lots of snow, and they must collect plenty of wood.


    A good leader, he then called the weather service and asked, "Is this winter going to be cold?"


    The man on the phone responded "this winter is going to be quite cold indeed", so the chief told his people to collect even more wood.


    A week later he called the weather service again, "Is it going to be a very cold winter?" "Yes", the man replied, "it's going to be a very cold winter", so the chief orders his people to collect every scrap of wood they can find.


    Two weeks later he calls the weather service again: "Are you absolutely sure this winter is going to be very cold?"


    "Absolutely," the man replies, "the Indians are collecting wood like crazy!"

  4. Of course, given your close proximity to the Capital City and snow meaning something else entirely up there, have you noticed any "three-piece-suits" kneeling on the ground with a rolled-fifty up their noses ?

    • I wouldn't call fifty miles or so "close proximity"?  Down here in the south of the county we don't encourage any of those yuppie things.  We enjoy more traditional consumables that we can grow ourselves.

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