I enjoy snow. It has an equalising, purifying quality about it. I enjoy the fact that I can go upstairs to bed, close my curtains (whilst catching a glimpse of next door's garden in all its organised perfection, compared to my patchy grass and higgledy piggledy bushes), and wake up to a thick blanket of white stuff that makes all the gardens in the area identical. And then, for about a day, I can feel a bit smug that my garden looks just as wonderful for once, and I didn't have to do anything.
I also enjoy being the first to trudge in the snow. I feel like an intrepid arctic explorer, carving a path to places unknown with my Hunter wellies, despite them being a tad tight on my calves due to the annual Christmas-Pigout. But, like all explorers, I expect a bit of discomfort as I encounter strange new worlds. I'm fairly sure Ranulph Fiennes didn't complain about his fingers dropping off, so I shall not moan that my wellies are causing friction burn which looks a bit like horizontal hickies across the back of my calves.
I went to the City today to assess several canteens and restaurants to make sure they are complying... snore.... zzzzzz. God, sometimes this day job bores the tits off me. Anyway, it was ostensibly for my job, but really it was just to have a float around the Sales and see if there was anything pretty worth buying with what's left of my Christmas money (most of it having been spent on post-Christmas grocery shopping). I was contemplating popping into John Lewis when my Hunter wellies snagged on something on the pavement (probably ice, but who knows) and sent me arse over tit onto the ground. There was an horrendous ripping sound and as sure as ice is ice, the arse of my trousers ripped and as I stood up the creepy busker outside M&S, along with most of the rest of the City Centre, caught an eyeful of my knickers. Righto. Laughing off calls of "Eeh, are you all right?" with a breezy it-happens-all-the-time-I-am-a-professional "Oh, I'm jolly super, thank you!" I hot-footed it into the sanctuary of John Lewis, took my coat off, tied it around my wait and dashed up to Ladieswear, whereupon I grabbed the first pair of trousers that I thought I could squeeze my shamed arse and hickied calves into. Into the fitting rooms I dashed, and when satisfied that they sort of fit, they were purchased and worn all the way home on a very long, tedious and cold bus journey.
I haven't worn them since. Nor have I worn the traitorous Hunters.