Whinging about the outfit I can't wear tonight
If it were proper snow, it would be worth it: stuff that paints the world bright white, so you when you pull back curtains you can’t help but have your face lit up with gladness; thick enough for making snowballs, and wavy-armed, angels; and best of all, sliding down the heath on poly bags or tin trays (I have a deluxe toboggan in my mother’s loft, but prising anything from her hands is harder than pulling wisdom teeth). This stuff we’ve had, while perfectly pretty, floating like giant feathers past my window some days, now brings more irritation than excitement of the new. Making my roof leek little drops of blackness on my favourite rug; taking all warmth from my flat as soon as heating is turned off; turning to damp sleet at times I need to cycle and just not giving all the joy it should.
I’m not such a curmudgeonly old hen that I don’t take small pleasure in the tiny flacks that touch my eyelids or the crispness of the air; but please, a little bit of sunshine and warmth. I want to be able to go out not wrapped up like a Bangladeshi’s baggage, with layers of protective covering belted round me. I want to wear a floral frock.
Sunshine. Please. Pretty please.