Tiny flakes of frozen water

It's snowing for a second time here in Pontyates, which is surely a sign of some kind of oncoming apocalypse. At the slightest hint of snow here in Britain a laughably extreme reaction seems to break out in the citizens. There's a certain manic look that pops onto the faces of people, which I equate to that of a frantic heron, as they detect that first snowflake and sprint to their cars in search of bread and milk before anyone else can buy it all in a massive binge. Yes, they are in immediate danger of being buried under a massive snowdrift falling from the sky as one bulk mass, and they must get home, they must. Schools have special detectors that can see snowflakes from up to two miles away and immediately send everyone home just in case a child gets hit with a dirty snowball. Oooh, topical! (And unfair to schools.)

As my bus is turned back, and the prospect of meeting my appointment in Llanelli recedes like a dream in a whirly stream of colour, I sit here doodling and wondering how we are so bad at dealing with snow. We are laughed at by the whole continent and it's easy to see why. Five years ago we could maybe make a case for being surprised and unprepared but it now snows heavily every year at about the same time. There is no excuse anymore, and it is actually kind of annoying. I would hate to get overly political but maybe investing - not cutting - some money in snow equipment would help the economy and allow efficiency and activity instead of shutting down whole regions of the country. That is all.

I feel certain this is all connected to December 21st ending the world, and the fact that I'm still getting hordes of junk e-mail for Madeline Reeves. That is still inexplicable to me. I'd rather get my own junk e-mail, thank you very much, and now I'm being buried under junk astrology spam as well as cosmetic advertisements and all other kinds of pap!

<pauses for a moment>

As I abort my rant, which is now in abeyance until a more suitable time such as meeting the mythical Ms Reeves, the snow continues to fall harder and harder and the prospect of egress from this little village becomes more and more remote. We may all be trapped here until the end of time, or until a desperate rugby fan digs a trench out to the nearest train station to make an international in Cardiff.

And now I close, wishing you all a wonderful time playing in, looking at, or cursing the snow. Isn't it lovely?

O.

<Throws hands up in disgust and walks away>