Blimey… what a completely crazy, emotional and turbulent week. Unsurprisingly I am slightly behind on work after it all, and should really be spending these precious hours working out what the hell I’m going to write about Thomas Aquinas tomorrow. But I’ve already been strangely disconnected from the online world recently – save Twitter! – and it’s better to blog now while the memories are still snowy fresh.
The most important thing, of course, is that Lucy and I are back together And I know what you’re all thinking () but surprisingly often in life the crazy, silly, ‘wrong’ things are actually the very best things of all, and so it is with this. (She’s probably better at blogging about it than me ) And this means, of course, that my blog can now return to its rightful mode of bland non-emotion, ‘breathless narrative’ (to borrow a phrase from certain marking criteria) and little illustrative pictures. Which is surely a very good thing too.
So yes, these little pictures down the side? Snapshots from snow day! (Well, until my poor little phone gave out.) But not like everyone else’s happy-super-funtime snow day, but the day that begins with the realisation that you are trapped in a village, and need to get to Birmingham, and then London, and then Cambridge somehow. Granted, it’s the nicest village to be trapped in given that I was at Lucy’s for the night, and initially I thought I would just wait it out. But then the news seemed to suggest that the snow was fast heading up the country, and if I waited I could get even more trapped as the West Midlands became a blizzard. So, in what with hindsight proved to be a minor miracle of timing, I set off just after lunch for what became a (bearable, if tiring) six hour trek. Some choice moments:
- As I walked to Cofton’s bus stop, a man standing in his driveway cheerfully wished me a merry Christmas. Aw, friendly ‘community’. This was so going to be the last I felt of it as I headed off towards a string of cities.
- Which is unfair, actually, because there was a quite lovely Icelandic woman who sat next to me on the train back to London and told me about real snow. Our chats were intermittent affairs, as I also had my head buried in Aquinas, but quite welcome.
- Walking from Euston to King’s Cross was so utterly strange. One, because of the relative lack of people. Two, because those people that were about were carefully trudging rather than busily bustling. And three, because the snow had become hidden puddles leaving me with wet feet.
- King’s Cross. The train is ‘on time’, but it apparently leaves in a few minutes and there is still no platform number. A crowd gathers. Then, suddenly, a murmur as the platform is finally announced. The crowd surges. People start to walk, then jog, and then it actually develops into an all out race down the station. “This is so silly and overtly competitive” I think as I break into a run and fight my way almost to the front. This train may be stopping at an unfathomable number of crazy places, but it’s the only train there is, and I will get a seat. As indeed I do. Yay!
Oh, and finally! The evening of Friday’s Caius formal, wine and Caroline in a hoodie (hehe) has almost been buried admidst all of this, so here’s a group photo:
(I reserve the right to retain the embarrassing hoodie photos until some such as time as when a News of the World exclusive could make me some money.)