In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends…. We enjoy now, not an Oriental, but a Boreal leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of motes in the sunbeams. – HDT
It is winter now, unmistakably, epidermis-shrivellingly evident. Has been for a while. Not Westeros-grade winter, thank heavens, but winter still. Chill, gelid, flake-flung flurries, horrendous, dark, anti-life mornings, any and all of those cold things you expect from it. Technically, I’d venture, it started that early December day when snow first fell. I didn’t expect it to last on the city’s lukewarm pavement but, astonishingly, it did. Nor did I expect [though I haven’t kept a precise month-by-month meteorological record] did I expect snow in early December. This much of a whiteness. If I loosely recollect I feel that the last time Papa Frost gave it up this early must be a decade or so back, long ere today when I was still shivering through my intellectual ice age. [NB: not that it has really come to an end or even promises to; if there is a tongue-in-cheek to be found, rest assured it is frozen solid there].
Our meteorologists [who have their “studio” on the rooftop of the TV station, as an only demi-tacky illustration/effectuation of their exposure to and mercy at the hands of the meteorological deities] keep chanting that this is unprecedented, the levels of snow fall in Switzerland for this month, especially Glarus, which does look like a most unfortunate real-life emulation of the powder-sugar territories [Glazzura Maxima] found in the lands of Cockaigne. What hasn’t happened yet [or maybe i’m off the grid too often] is the whole avalanche kills this-and-this-many unwitting mountaineers, e.g. kills four, injures seven, irritates seventy-two. Like avalanches were just another quadrupedal predator, prowling the frosty landscapes in search of easy prey, e.g. the suckers who think avalanche-placards are just one statement of opinion among many, the alpine doppelgaenger of anarchist banners on may first.
Which, no but, eysh, too late.
Not in Luciaria though, the surfeit of snow. We’ve had two events of major crystallized precipitation but it hasn’t fluffed up all that high. We’ve had our share of nerve-wrecking sludge but nothing like what surely is in store for Jan and Feb, those forever dependable three-score days of cold fuckery and unbidden suicidal ideation. And nor has it been like super cold. Instead that first snowfall was shortly followed by suspiciously clement days of sunshine and mild temperatures, reminiscent of those depression-alleviating days March is sprinkled with. As stated, like most mortals, I don’t keep a climate log but the changeover between wintry and springy was, leastwise, conspicuous.
However, the weather-necks have been going on about the singularity of this December; and they never once mention climate-change, not once, it’s almost comical. I suppose it must amount to professional suicide “As for next week, dear viewers, I wish we could give you a higher percentage estimate but, I be damned, the weather’s been so out of whack, bloody climate change, we’ve been pumping what? giga-tons of CO2 into….ahh whatever, forget what I just said. Monday December 1st, 30% probability of acid snow, I mean snow, just regular white snow. This has been the BASF live meteocast. I’m Jimbo Ballzapped. Good Night”.
Today though, despite my fabulous, night-blue corduroy pants and my new skyblue, high-performance [ICEPACK, ski-jumper?] winter jacket, plus the long, thick, rugby-type socks, I could finally feel winter’s cold claws flaking away at my already ashy legs, sucking dry spots onto my skins and, almost, making me shiver. And the good old floodgates of hibernal resentement were flung open wide, except that I had long since drained that particular reservoir.