It's January. We all have to talk about snow, so here goes...

I spent most of this morning listening to the snow melting in the sunshine.


We've been largely snow and ice free round here this week (unlike Helminthdale, where a layer of ice hung around the pavements like last season's dog dirt). Yesterday tea time it started snowing properly for an hour then spent twice as long pouring down with rain, which made for an adventurous trip to the Co-op.

Then it started snowing with a vengeance.

The Small Object of Desire spotted it first: the sky had gone quite orange (the local light pollution bounces around quite remarkably in the snow light). I had a quick dekko out of the front door: big, big fluffy flakes of the stuff. Luckily we had no reason to do any other but to batten down the hatches for the night, herself gleeful 'cos she loves snow, me less so 'cos I don't like sliding around and falling on my arse. The Cat I Don't Have snoozed carelessly on the lady's lap (in between having a yawn and falling off the sofa). Winter Wonderland bliss of sorts. Right up to bed time. Which, of course is when the cat realises that it needs to go out for a crap. This, in turn, means that I have to hang around while the daft pillock gets back (we don't allow her a latch key because she keeps losing them). Sigh...

The plus side is that I got to spend ten minutes watching a couple of courting foxes running round the playing field across the road, which was quite sweet. The cat, quite understandably, has other views on the matter, as was made plain when she came back in a few minutes later.

What this council really needs is some dirty great Moscow State Circus posters plastered all over the windows

I recently had a drink with that nice Macy when she stopped at Clogtown on her whistle-stop tour of the stopped whistles of Olde England. During the course of the conversation she asked if I missed the other blog and I gave her a somewhat evasive answer. Which wasn't fair really, but I didn't want to get maudlin about it.

The truth of the matter is that yes, I do miss it, but I can't go back. I do miss the sense of community it engendered (and thanks to all of you for that) but reading back through it is painful: it's already a far-distant piece of history, just as much as Reckitt's Blue and Mazawattee Tea. It's an awful thing, God help us all, that those tales of mismanagement, fuckwittery and the infuriating waste of time and energy, staff and resources depict A Golden Age. Which is not to fall into the currently-fashionable trap of "It was all better when T.Aldous was in charge, he wouldn't have let all this happen." The generation of T.Aldouses and Marys, Julias and Reggies have a lot to answer for: even the best army would struggle in battle after it's spent two decades chasing sheep on pogo sticks and eating pebbles for no apparent reason. And now, and now... Oh God, you couldn't believe it. It's pure comedy gold every single day and I can't even bear to laugh at it.

So I can't go back there. I'll just have to stick here and make a nuisance of myself.

Drums along the Mersey

Visitors to our fair city are beguiled by the romance of the place names on our public transport systems. They marvel at the merest thought of St. Wereburglar, the patron saint of those who are law-abiding enough save under the influence of the full moon. They crowd over to MediaCit Yuk, the gleaming chromium-and-neon spires where once there were the skinners' yards, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon Dee or even Michael Miles. And talk of Robert Shaw's Mumps makes young men quiver.

The trams are coming to Helminthdale. Sing calloo! calloo! callay!

Joy Division oven gloves

I've just noticed that these underpants have a label saying: "Keep away from fire." There are whole avenues of human experience that I've left unexplored...