I'm dreaming of a white Christmas. Except, it's not exactly the lovely kind of white Christmas involving chestnuts roasting on an open fire, just like the ones we used to know; no, it's the kind where the weather outside is frightful and there isn't a fire, delightful or otherwise. I'm beginning to think my Christmas trip to Cannes is cursed this year because my next next worry is due to England's ailing transportation networks, following the excessive recent snow. In fact, Heathrow cancelled all flights after seven o'clock this evening; my flight is at eight tomorrow night. My parents, whose flight is tomorrow morning, probably won't have any problems but little ol' me on the last flight to Nice probably won't be so lucky.
Nonetheless, I have packed and I've even wrapped my parents' Christmas presents now that they have decided to stay over tonight in case the driving conditions from Oxford are too horrific in the morning. I'm really not happy with all of my colleagues who keep praying for more snow--yeah, thanks, sez I. I do, however, concede that St John's looks very pretty in the snow. As to whether I'd be so annoyed at the moment if I hadn't had
la peur de grève, I can't say.
Anyway, all I can do now is hope that the weather improves tomorrow and that I don't get stuck at Heathrow. And if I do, then tough shit. Perhaps Emily Dickinson said it best:
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
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