the wrong sort of snow
Friday, February 09, 2007
Once again, it seems, a couple of inches of snow have brought the UK to a juddering halt, punctuated only by the stifled sniggers of certain ex-pat Canadians politely suggesting that they've seen real snow, and that isn't it, eh? I remember getting caught in a similar civil emergency three years ago when we lived in Cambridge: it was my last day at work before going on maternity leave, and I was eight months pregnant with Rebecca. As my colleagues gathered around my desk to present me with bootees and baby lotion, the sky darkened and fluffy flakes of snow began to tumble prettily down; my awkward thank you speech was immediately drowned out in the general stampede towards the car park. Pausing only to sweep the remains of my desk into my handbag and empty my bladder, I joined in, but by the time I'd managed to pull out onto the main road, Cambridge was gridlocked. As I sat in my car being spattered by the gritter truck I'd managed to get stuck behind, I could see in my rear vision mirror an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, vainly attempting to nudge its way through the crush, and realised that this would be a very bad time indeed to go into early labour. I suppose if I were Canadian I'd have nailed a couple of Moulson crates to my shoes and struck out on foot, but being quasi-British I remained in my car, tutting occasionally and invoking the spirit of the Blitz. It eventually took me three hours to travel the six miles to my house. (It'd have been 3.3 miles, incidentally, if I'd been unpregnant enough to cycle.)
0 Comments: