The Frigid Suicides

Blue skies and clear on a Monday - where's my pathetic fallacy? Hmm, that sounds like a good song title.

It sounded like the end of the world this morning at about 8am. Actually it felt quite a lot like it too. It's that time of year up here when things can't decide if they want to freeze or melt, so vacillate between the two for a few weeks before committing to anything. It sounds harmless enough, but I tell you, it's treacherous. If the slick and shininess of the footpath isn't plotting to land you on your coccyx, then the snow-which-melted-to-water-which-froze-to-ice (I'm sure there's a Finnish word for that) decides that it's got nothing left to live for, in this new warm world, and casts itself into the void, seven stories up, plummeting to a smashy death on pavements below. Pavements populated by people!

Obviously this kind of dangerous icicle suicide can't be tolerated, so frequently (though why before eight Lord, why?) teams of intrepid euthanisers hit the roofs of the town with snow shovels, pushing half-way depressed ice-cubes over the edge.

And that's why it was noisy this morning.

So yes, it's Monday, and yes it's still not Summer, but reflect on your good fortune - you might have been an icicle.