“Oh, isn’t it pretty?”
Are those the first words uttered by gulag residents every morning they wake up and peruse the bleak and frozen wastelands of Siberia?
The amount of people who have recently smiled those words when describing the continuing perm-state of this year’s winter offerings has astounded me. I want to tell them, nay I do tell them, that the bloody white freezing stuff is not pretty unless one hyphenates the word with shitty.
And I dislike the cosy descriptions of: ‘blankets of snow’, ‘a covering’, and ‘winter-wonderland’. The only wonder is that we have not woken up to the fact that Putin is exporting huge swathes of his weather across European borders, without visas, various travel restrictions, and we are not threatening him with a life-time ban from either owning football clubs or making the top floor of Harrods off-limits.
Mini-Beast go back to your papa.