After my rather romantic and quite possibly over sentimental splurge of yesterday on the wonderous character and emotional poignancy of that seasonal icon semi frozen water, I was absolutely flabbergasted to wake this morning to the sight of a rapidly descending blizzard of seductive whiteness.
Of course my reaction was suitably perverse to the extreme, an immediate search for my snow boots, a donning of a very red and Christmassy looking Royal Stewart kilt, matched naturally with a fleece overtop of very bright almost wrapping paper gaudy patterned nature and a bonnet of silver gray to match my ancient locks and goatee.
Exiting the front door I rapidly devolved from seventy to seven, my heart and soul leaping with seasonal joy and wonder. The compacting crunch of semi-crystalline moisture under foot, the somewhat concerning but equally exhilarating experience stepping upon the somewhat treacherous surface, a form of progression that even my many periods of familiarity with the surreal vastness of Balkan and Bulgarian snowfall has never managed to make commonplace.
My return to the warmth of my cottage and the tittle tattle of social media was of course greeted with the expected host of negativity. Reactions were immediate, extreme, frighteningly adult and conservative with a large ‘C’. Agreed, old age is most decidedly inclined to produce a sudden and seemingly unavoidable return to childishness both in behavior and emotion, but even so the complete dispassion and immovability of many begins to take on the faint aroma of the robotic and is frankly universally sad and depressing. Even now as I sit and complete this small essay I can already hear the drip, drip, drip, of water hitting the base of the wood fire’s stove pipe. No sooner is winter painted virginal white than it commences reverting back to its regular wishy washy, wet, and far more miserable blandness.
Do please count your blessings people, even if they cause a slight inconvenience to you otherwise tepid lives.