All I want for Christmas is…

Snow. Finally. Oh Smashing

…. well quite a lot considering. Considering the endless collisions of my legendary impatience and rampant kleptomania are realised in roof to rafters shiny things. Even so, would it be unreasonable to ask Santa to provide an overall’d man to knock jauntily at my door come January 2nd?

And before I could even enquire of his business he would declare “Hi, I’m an out of work painter and decorator. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to use my skills in every room of your house. No payment will be accepted, and there is only one condition before I start. That you let my mate Bob here” [reveals tool wielding sidekick] “to re-plumb all your bathrooms“.

Bit of a stretch for Santa do we think? In that case I shall settle for Christmas to be a bit less Christmassy. Oh I’m not asking for miracles; rampant consumerism is a tide that cannot be turned, Slade on repeat from October appears institutionalised and I’ll even accept that the odd medically dependant may miss nativity plays, BUT I’m pretty damn sick of the weather.

Nothing wrong with a bit of snow at this festive time. No problem with that. Pelting family members with snow isn’t without merit. Snowmen with humourous attachments never fail to raise a smile*, and a world decorated in virgin white is worth a second look.

But this is starting to get a bit sodding tedious. Only a few months ago, a gaggle of us were risking hypothermia at Easter. And tonight was my tenth cosecutive dog walk at below zero. In fact this evening’s stroll was a balmy -2 which compared favourably to a couple of close to minus double digit trudges last week. And while not suffering “trench todger” is welcome, the four inches of snow that’s fallen since lunchtime is not.

The dog tho – he bloody loves it. Snow is canine catnip, and nothing short of the full field trudge is going to do. 7pm the dog is nosing my elbow and giving me a look I’ve started to think of as “clubbed seal pup“. It’s another ten minutes before I’m suited up in the entire contents of my winter wardrobe, old motorcycle gloves, two pairs of socks, wellies and ‘Benny from Crossroads” bobble hat.

Murf already has his coat on and shows his impatience by launching out of the door, failing to remember how icy it is before aqua-pawing straight across the drive and into the opposing hedge. That’s kind of how I feel about riding my bike right now. Yesterday we decided it was too icy, and tomorrow will probably be too snowy. It’s the safe decision, but I’m damn sure it’s not the right one.

I can’t even commute to work unless the ambulance could drop me off on the way to A&E. If it’s too damn slippy to remain upright in your size 10 chunky welly, I don’t hold out much hope for massive traction from 23cc mostly slicks. So it’s walking the dog, night after night in the freezing bloody cold. And it’s three months until Spring.

So here’s an idea. Christmas is all about giving isn’t it? Thinking about what the receiver would like, and how that might – and there’s always a little bit of this – make your life better as well. On that basis I’ve decided to buy Murf a treadmill.

* or a carrot. Or whatever else comes to mind. I’ve always been a fan of the broccoli wanger myself.

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