It might as well snow until December
Nov. 29th, 2010 09:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceOkay. I am now officially Tired of Snow. And yet, paradoxically, I am pleased that it does keep falling.
And it does, oh it does: there is more than a foot and a half out there now, and yet-more promised today. Thing is, though, as long as it falls, then there is fresh snow to walk on, which means there is grip. Once it stops, then passage-of-feet will flatten it to ice, and it will slick over and be lethal, and I will fall over and hurt myself. So it goes. I do not comprehend how we can fly to the moon etc etc and yet not invent a bootsole that will grip on ice.
Yesterday, despite the foot and a half, we went to the football match. It all felt very English - fifty thousand strangers gathered together in the bitter chill, to cheer on a handful of oddly-dressed lads with a bladder - except that I had a heretical thought about the seductive glamour of TV. Thing is, I am a sports fan. I am mostly a watch-it-on-TV-in-the-warm kind of fan, with a drink and a mate or two, but I do enjoy my sports. [Especially cricket, and I would like us all to pause a moment and consider the notion of 517 for 1 declared, thank you very much.] And I do understand about market values, and where all the money comes from, and pretty much also where it goes. And yet, there I was at the live event for once, watching the core activity in the flesh, and y'know what? I couldn't see the money. I couldn't count the commercial value of those twenty-two men on the pitch there - we were playing Chelsea, which is still I think the most expensive team in the country, if not the continent, if not the world - but it must have run into many hundreds of millions spent, and many many millions in wages; and really truly? They're not worth it. They're not actually that good, to be valued that highly and earn that much.
Which is a very unEnglish thought, and I am almost but not quite ashamed of it.
In other news, there is a foot and a half of snow out there, it's hard to get out of bed and I can't stop eating. I am quite comfortable with this thought lodged in my head, that in winter one needs extra fuel, but here it is in manifestation and I find that I don't understand it. I'm exercising less, indeed I'm barely leaving the house unless I have to; so if that fuel is being converted into heat, I don't actually see how. All I know is, I'm just hungry all the time. [Note to self: must bake bread tonight. Also, must post triumphant chorizo-and-cream-and-pasta recipe.]
Today I have to go to the Lit & Phil for a meeting. Nothing arduous, but oy. Foot and a half.
*coffees up*
And it does, oh it does: there is more than a foot and a half out there now, and yet-more promised today. Thing is, though, as long as it falls, then there is fresh snow to walk on, which means there is grip. Once it stops, then passage-of-feet will flatten it to ice, and it will slick over and be lethal, and I will fall over and hurt myself. So it goes. I do not comprehend how we can fly to the moon etc etc and yet not invent a bootsole that will grip on ice.
Yesterday, despite the foot and a half, we went to the football match. It all felt very English - fifty thousand strangers gathered together in the bitter chill, to cheer on a handful of oddly-dressed lads with a bladder - except that I had a heretical thought about the seductive glamour of TV. Thing is, I am a sports fan. I am mostly a watch-it-on-TV-in-the-warm kind of fan, with a drink and a mate or two, but I do enjoy my sports. [Especially cricket, and I would like us all to pause a moment and consider the notion of 517 for 1 declared, thank you very much.] And I do understand about market values, and where all the money comes from, and pretty much also where it goes. And yet, there I was at the live event for once, watching the core activity in the flesh, and y'know what? I couldn't see the money. I couldn't count the commercial value of those twenty-two men on the pitch there - we were playing Chelsea, which is still I think the most expensive team in the country, if not the continent, if not the world - but it must have run into many hundreds of millions spent, and many many millions in wages; and really truly? They're not worth it. They're not actually that good, to be valued that highly and earn that much.
Which is a very unEnglish thought, and I am almost but not quite ashamed of it.
In other news, there is a foot and a half of snow out there, it's hard to get out of bed and I can't stop eating. I am quite comfortable with this thought lodged in my head, that in winter one needs extra fuel, but here it is in manifestation and I find that I don't understand it. I'm exercising less, indeed I'm barely leaving the house unless I have to; so if that fuel is being converted into heat, I don't actually see how. All I know is, I'm just hungry all the time. [Note to self: must bake bread tonight. Also, must post triumphant chorizo-and-cream-and-pasta recipe.]
Today I have to go to the Lit & Phil for a meeting. Nothing arduous, but oy. Foot and a half.
*coffees up*