Well, look at that. Another wretched winter wonderland. The trees are positively laced with delicate new fallen snow. The whole world is all stupidly quiet as billions of tiny special snowflakes float gently down out of the sky.
I don’t care, though. I have a huge puff coat and I’ve resigned myself to the hopelessness of it being winter forever.
We’ve been watching Amazing Hotels on Netflix, in between episodes of the Great British Show and something else that has escaped my memory (I know, it was that good). I have basically totally loved seeing the innards of remarkable and gorgeous hotels–that strangely tall one in Singapore, the giraffe one in Nairobi, the forest one in South America somewhere. I was almost even ready to chuck it all and go live on the Craggy Island reminiscent one in Newfoundland–until the communal dancing got underway. But I absolutely draw the line at the insanity of the Ice Hotel.
Spent a tense, and stressed half hour cringing as ordinary people, red in the face, obviously bitterly cold and uncomfortable tramped up and down snow hallways and drank a variety of colored drinks out of ice glasses. (That seemed to be the key to survival, lots and lots of alcohol.) And all the time while they’re waddling around in whacking great unyielding parkas rubbing their hands together and blowing on them, they all insist that it’s amazing and exclaiming what a good time they’re having.
No, don’t lie to me. Experiencing cold is very very bad. Almost morally bad, though I won’t try to defend myself on that count.
I mean, in a few short minutes I’m going to have to trudge out into the snow and sweep the car off with a broom, and beat my way into its interior to turn it on. I’m going to be wearing so many clothes I’m probably going to fall down and look ridiculous. Then I’m going to stamp my feet and bang them against the wall, and stagger back inside, nevertheless dragging snow in no matter how careful I am.
And that’s how it’s going to be all day as people go in and out. Every twenty minutes I’m going to have to go all over the floor with a big towel as snow is drug in to melt on the now salt encrusted floor. It doesn’t matter that people should take their snow regalia off right at the door. Nothing matters. The stairwell is one long assembly of dingy boots, and the coat cupboard is a soggy, jumbled mess.
As one might say, Enough Already. Or even, That’ll Do. My snow compartment, which doesn’t even exist, is full enough to last for the next ten years. Maybe in revenge I’ll fill Instagram up to the brim with snow pictures, with endless piles–like the snow banks themselves–of children building dozens of strangely shaped snow persons.