Sixty-something years ago, my grandfather knew enough about the weather that entire RAF squadrons would take off on his advice. Last night, I didn’t know whether what was hitting me was rain or snow.
In all fairness, I couldn’t really see…
It’s a funny old world where the weather inside the shitty, moulded-concrete Brutalist ice rink is more welcoming than outside. It’s not snow any more, just a constant sleetish hailish torrent that turned the ground to slush and made my trenchcoat twice as heavy. Elsewhere, England is drowning. Given that Australia is burning, I’m not going to complain.
Off skating with COGS really was great fun. Having been an enthusiastic skater/rollerblader back in Islington at the age of 13, I found myself of… middling skill among my gamer friends, not waddling like Fish or falling over at the slightest provocation like Robbo, but not zipping around with perfect confidence like Taylor or Troy either. My ankles hurt, but that’s the point, isn’t it?
During cleanup tonight, three minutes to midnight, Still Alive came on the radio. I had a small nerdgasm right there and then, which lengthened the mopping somewhat.