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.