Perverts with Binoculars

It's snowing today. Funny, that--I was just on about my father saying "The snow is snittering full snart," and now it is. Well, maybe not full snart, as such--that would be a blizzard riding a howling gale, I think--but it's certainly snittering, and quite merrily at that. The parts of the city that are still showing look extra-dirty next to the snowed-over bits, and the tree outside my window is bare. (Bare of packbawkies, that is. Ordinarily, it's sporting at least one or two of them at all times, particularly early-morning times.)

If it weren't for the lack of birds, and the crowds of people in the street, I'd be reminded of Umeå in winter. Over there, see, it'd have been no people and a crowd of squawking magpies. Oh, and the snow would be piled up behind every building, hiding entire storeys from view. Up till the middle of May, you could still look round back and find the remnants of snowbanks. There'd sometimes be hidden ice, too, lying in wait under layers of muddy runoff. This, you'd encounter on your way down the steep hill that separates the residential section of Carlshem from the commercial district (that is to say, the Statoil). And what happens when you encounter hidden ice on a muddy hill? Why, you slide down on your arse, of course. What a mess!

Inside the Rat's Nest, my fingers are frozen stiff. I'd close the windows, but then it would get all stuffy and Stella-smelling. No matter how often I wash that rat, she always has a certain heavy musk to her. It's hardly noticeable when there's fresh air circulating, but in a confined space, it becomes a little cloying. For want of a better comparison, it's like having ten bowls of soggy Cinnamon Toast Crunch on your table at all times. Phew.

Another thing I'd do if I could is take photographs of the snow. It's an infrequent enough occurrence round these parts that one wants to commemorate it when it happens. I've not got a camera, though, so here's a brief description instead:

Davie Street (or Burnaby Street, or whatever street it is I see when I look out my window) is full of trees. Not those wee manicured trees you get on English streets, either, but great cloudreaching ones, poking branches up to the fifth floor and beyond. So--so you've got these waving around in the wind, and the snow's trying to collect in the crotches where branches part ways. Below the trees, you've got the road, which is grey-brown and sloppy. Above, there's the sky, which is in much the same condition as the road, only less crowded. In the middle, there's a line of unassuming shops and mediocre skyscrapers. All, in the dimness of dawn, are cast in shades of grey and brown, as are the lines of parked cars. (Well, the taxicabs are still yellow, but there aren't too many of those. It's impossible to find a taxi round here when the weather's like this.)

Over everything, there's a scrappy frosting of snow, with holes in it where birds have landed, and ripples where the wind's blown across. There are footprints on the pavements--old sets that are scuffy and beginning to fill in, and new ones clear enough to use as evidence. The road hasn't snowed over at all, because of the constant passage of cars. The road is just wet. There'll probably be an accident, if people don't slow down. Everyone must be late for something, the way they're zooming about.

The sun has yet to make an appearance--the sky's sporting one of those all-over clouds, grey from horizon to horizon. No sun-dragonflies today. (Speaking of the sun, what on earth am I doing up this early? It's only ten-thirty, and I went to bed late last night. I should still be sleeping. I should be folded into my duvet like a bit of ham in a cordon bleu. I should be oblivious, blissfully oblivious, to the rubbish weather which is holding the city in its grip. Instead, I'm up, and I've had breakfast and a shower, to boot. (That's how I noticed the snow, in fact--I'd just come out of the shower, and I was in my bedroom looking for underpants. There I was, completely naked from the waist down, when I noticed that someone had taken the drawing pin out of the curtains, which had opened a crack.

"Someone with binoculars," I observed, "could see me through that crack, one of those perverts you get. A pervert is probably eyeing me up right now." I went over to close the gap, and that was when I saw a snowflake go by. Then came another one, and another, and they're still coming thick and fast. (Rather like that binocular-pervert, I imagine. Oh, faugh! Did I have to say that? Why, yes--yes, I did. It's like that one sex-shop sign reads, the one over on Granville Street: "A Dirty Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste". The Internet loves dirty thoughts--the filthier the better. It's practically my civic obligation to write up every manky or prurient thought that enters my head.)

Any road, I'd best get off to work before I say anything truly loathsome. All I'd meant to do was talk about the snow, and here I am going on about sex perverts on Granville Street!