Good morning, gorgeous. There's a beautiful snowy wonderland waiting outside for you. Just don't slip and crack your skull walking along the 'nal.He's a very optimistic realist, my Jaffa Cake. It had rained on Love Lane this morning, so I flaghopped with care down Mount St. What snow had fallen overnight was now in puddles of slush, sat like pizzas of sick in the centre of each paving slab, turning the street into a slick chequerboard of calamity. I'm clumsy in the mornings (afternoons and evenings) so having to pick my way in to work fairly cooled my heels. I'd planned to prance in my new boots. Nobody's noticed my new boots yet, but I'm trying not to sulk about that.
It's going really well.
It started to snow again, and the flakes stuck to my red coat and curls. I must look pretty as a postcard! I thought to myself, before catching a glimpse of my sodden reflection. It is only now that it dawns on me; people look pretty as pictures, places are pretty as postcards. I am all bumps and hillocks today, my tangled undergrowth stretching this metaphor further than either of us wanted to go.
