Everyone, myself included, is in a tizz about this Spring-time snow chaos. Actually, no, I am not in a tizz. I am in a dark well of misery. A well I find myself in, usually, after 3 months of this rubbish, one I wallow in, one from which I cast aspersions and spit irrational vitriol about seasons simply doing their job. This time I am splashing about in the cold blackness after just six weeks and it has more to do with the time of year this is all happening than the length of time it has been happening for. I am crotchety and negative and complaining endlessly about wet socks and slippery roads and the general, overall depressing nature of this entire situation. Spring. Ha.
Want to know what Australians and Jamaicans and all those Mediterranean dwellers are so happy, so laid back, so easy going? Because they do not spend 80% of their year with their shoulders hunched, chins ducked, eyes cast downwards, face in a ‘there are little icy pellets in my eyes’ scrunch/scowl. They are not permanently cold or damp or ploughing with booted feet through grey slush. Their body language is not closed off, their bodies aren’t turning in on itself, trying to protect itself from what the world is throwing at it.
Stop me. This can only turn into the rant of a mad woman (and, really, I could talk about the weather for hours, wherever I am, I’m an English speaker.) Want to see some pictures of frozen over windows and icicles? Yaaaay. The ice on the windows, over the course of the evening thickens into dirty sheets and then, over the course of the day, slides off to make room for new ones. Sometimes you can’t see out the windows at all. It’s like living in an igloo.
Germany, I’m hanging out for what I know you’re capable of. Don’t let me down.