The other day, my friend Paul said 'winter is coming' in his message and made a whole row of GOT-watching teenagers chuckle with glee in the middle of church.
He was right though. It is freezing. Tonight the sky is as black as ink, punctuated with brilliant stars and the finest wisps of moonlit clouds. The air is still and icy, condensing into swirls of breath and vapour which steams up my glasses.
I'm still a bit ill so I buried my nose in my scarf on the way home from work; I read somewhere that if you keep your nose warm, it's less likely to be a safe haven for the cold virus. Fair enough, I thought, sniffling into my scarf. It wasn't long before the road disappeared and the street lamps formed bright orange circles through the fog collecting on the inside of my spectacles. It was like being inside an impressionist painting.
When you get somewhere warm, like home or inside the office, or say The Volunteer for a Monday night choir team meeting, the first thing that happens is that your glasses steam up. As you take off your coat, and unwrap your scarf, the room goes white with fog and you look like a Penfold. Sometimes I really wish I could see properly.
When you can see it of course, winter itself is quite the beauty. There's that early morning sparkle that coats the pavements and rooftops; there are silent flurries of delicate snow so treacherous and sweet; there's the bright wintry moon and the frozen wind, the exquisite icicles and the smooth ice between the frosted grass and glinting trees. Then there are scarves and gloves and toboggans and snowballs; there are roaring fires and parcels and string, hot tea and buttered toast and kettles that whistle and muffins on warm plates.
(I have to get up ludicrously early tomorrow. I'm hoping this kind of thinking will really help.)
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