Ah yes, March.
The first wafts of Spring. Winter receding into a memory of warm fires and mulled wine. Sunshine. Lambs. Buds on the trees. Thoughts of Summer, the promise of heat.
These are some of the more accepted traits of March.
Unfortunately, Britain appears to have eschewed the classical approach to March with a fresh, edgy look based on howling winds and arse-clenchingly low temperatures.
A bit of my face nearly fell off on the walk to work today. I had to stumble the last 20 yards trying to keep my nose in its normal position after it lost circulation and decided to try and jump ship. I’m genuinely amazed that both of my ears are still here.
It’s also started snowing aggressively. Snow is meant to be a graceful, meandering weather event; if it made a noise it would sound like tinkling glass in slow motion. Pretty.
Today I had to fend off a coordinated attack from what felt like a hail of frozen wasps, angrily buzzing around my head. A bit like the snow had been out all night on Jagerbombs and Stella and was feeling a bit fighty.
This is absolutely unacceptable. I was in the Alps last week. It was 11 degrees. To be honest, I found that a little unusual but I most certainly did not expect to come back home only to crave the sweet, warm embrace of the Aiguille Grive.
I really crave the sweet, warm embrace of the Aiguille Grive.
Around this time of year, I (being, at heart, a man in his mid-sixties) like to start referring to things as ‘mad as a March hare’. Well I can tell you, the March hare is mad this year. He’s absolutely fucking livid. He wants to be out frolicking around, gambolling and doing other things that March hares generally do to indicate the scale of their madness. But he can’t. He’s trapped under four feet of ice in his burrow just outside Chester. The March hare is not just mad, he’s completely livid.
Weather, sort it out. This is ridiculous.
In other news, am I the only one who physically shudders every time I see either Chris Huhne or Vicky Pryce?