We’ve had a lot of weather recently. Fortunately the weather
is mostly back in the rivers and skies where it belongs now. But for a while,
we had a lot, and it caused delight and frustration in equal measure. (Although,
it should be pointed out, not within individual people. It’s either delight or frustration. Pick one)
I am firmly in the frustrated camp: my bike, which I go
everywhere on, is stricken by snow, with its skinny tyres and lightweight
frame rendered helpless by the icy roads; walking was just as problematic, with
the 5-minture walk to Tesco extended, penguin-step-by-penguin-step, to double
that time. Nevertheless, as an English student with an overactive imagination
and love for a good metaphor, snow fascinates me.
If there’s a problem that must be done
Don’t turn your tail and run
Don’t pout; don’t sob
Just do a half-assed job
There’s a Simpson’s episode where Sherry Bobbins – a bargain-basement
Mary Poppins – floats in hanging from an umbrella to babysit Bart and Lisa
(Maggie is self-reliant). She teaches them to shove all the mess in their rooms
into the closet and under the duvet. Out of sight, out of mind. A fresh blanket
of snow has the same effect. Every outside surface is covered in a pure, fresh,
white blanket of snow that hides everything underneath. It’s beautiful; boring
urban vistas look like fairytale vilages and genuine nice parts of the world,
like parks and proper fairytale villages usually found in Dorset, are amazing. Transport
links are screwed up by snow too*, so for a good number of people a thick
surface of snow means an unexpected and delightful holiday. It leads to a ‘I can’t get to work, so I won’t even worry’
attitude, and this is a lovely feeling, an unexpected break from responsibility.
In short, snow allows us to forget about the real world for a while. Our
problems and the ugly bits of the world are all covered up.
Of course, this idyll cannot last. The snow has to melt, and
if it doesn’t melt it turns to ice. Our problems do not really go away, rather
they lurk under the surface, waiting for their time again. They’re still there,
shoved under the duvet, crammed into the closet. And when they do emerge, they
are the equivalent of a metaphorically iced-over footpath: a small problem
(walking somewhere) is now quite difficult indeed. The ugly bits come out, and
things are worse than before. The closet has been opened, and everything has
fallen out into a pile more annoying, difficult and time-consuming than ever
before. Maybe we should just have done it properly to begin with. The feeling this prompts is somewhat like the one I experienced in Bruges last April, the feeling of being duped by excessive levels of wonderment.
So screw you, Sherry Bobbins, and screw you Snow.
*In defence of the English transport systems.
Unlike our Scandinavian and Alpine cousins, we only get snow
roughly once a year, which lasts for a few days. The cost of setting up a
strong snow-coping infrastructure outweighs the cost of financial losses incurred
from the havoc caused by the snow. While we may seem pathetic in comparison, it
isn’t worth the effort to be super snow-ready.
