Seven in the morning. My phone is ringing. Walking out of the railway lands I pull the vibrating object from my pocket,
“OH. MY. GOD. Oh my God! It looks like freaking Narnia,” shouts someone on the other end of the line. “We’re in the Convent Field. We’re planning on running around excitedly and drawing phalluses in the snow. What do you think?”
Faced with this question I have a choice. Back to sanity and my warm, warm bed… or… to the Convent Field to throw snowballs at minors with college people. A long pause ensues as I chew over this tasty thought-morsel.
“HELL TO THE YES” I shout, abruptly, galloping down the last few steps on the blue bridge. Then I fall straight on my butt. When it snows, as Felix so kindly demonstrated, it’s truly one of those occasions when you can do anything.
After I’ve walked around for about 20 minutes in blistering, hand-numbing cold, the novelty has long worn off. I watch one of my friends teetering on the brink of the top of the Paddock: snowball in one hand, cigarette in the other, climbing into number 27’s recycling bin. And realisation dawns that moments like these don’t last forever, which is why, despite being what Emrys would so eloquently describe as a “pussy”, I climb onto the sledge of doom in front of Rowan.
Walking back up the hill I remember why I don’t usually listen to the more clichéd of my thoughts. I’m completely soaking and really not in the mood for anything besides going home, curling up in a foetal position and pretending this whole day didn’t happen. Bah, Humbug.
