I don’t really get why people like snow. Especially people who, like me, live in a fast-paced city which literally grounds to a halt whenever the temperature drops below zero. I suppose I can forgive the children for revelling in it; after all, they haven’t seen a lot of snow in their lives, making a snowman is fun for about fifteen minutes (five minutes longer than any other activity they might choose to embark upon) and there’s always the possibility of school being closed. But adults? I am ashamed of the lot of you.
Falling over is not fun, being cold is not fun, walking like a constipated penguin is not fun (finally it makes sense why penguins hobble the way they do; if their strides were any bigger there’d be a lot of bruised penguin bum-bums), travelling for hours longer than you should have to is not fun, and having some random idiot chuck a snowball at you from across the road is only fun if you are alert enough to retaliate within five seconds and chuck one back, in which case it is extremely fun. But that is the only exception.
I feel slightly conned. My favourite season is autumn, and with it snowing in November (yes, I’m aware it is now December, but it was snowing yesterday, OK?!?!), my favourite season has therefore been cut short. The owners of all those gas-guzzling 4x4s have a lot of explaining to do. (Yes, I am single-handedly blaming them. It would take too long to cite everyone else responsible.)
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