Sorry, I know we are on the run-up to the Big Tinsel, and we generally avoid gloomy news at this time of the year, but given recent press coverage I thought I’d join in the general air of panic and hysterical overreaction about the weather.
So, we are all going to die. There we have it. Apparently, the weather has turned positively biblical on us and it’s time to hit the shelters. We have been hit by the Weatherbomb.
Rumour has it that ice floes advance upon the Forth. Sleet and rain rake the High Street. In Glasgow, a city where gentlemen maintain a proud tradition of adhering to the comb-over a la Archie Macpherson, the wind whips up unsuspecting hair to flap above the bobbing heads of Christmas shoppers like the top surf of a breaker on the shore.
Proud Mary’s big wheel might keep on turning, but the one in the Gardens can be stilled by the Arctic gales.
ScotRail has resorted to its usual bad weather default position of vaguely worried confusion.
Why, it’s only a matter of time before polar bears are seen sauntering down Leith Walk and the penguins vote yes for freedom from the zoo. Glaciers will inch down from the north and Dalgety Bay will disappear, which will have a fairly negative effect on house prices in Fife, I should imagine, and will thus enrage the Daily Mail.
Even Carol who does the weather on the breakfast news has forsaken her cheery demeanour and instead opted for the sort of solemn expression newsreaders usually employ when they must relay the news that a Z-list X Factor wannabe has been arrested on charges of avoiding parking fines. It is Armageddon, my friends, pure and simple. Nothing we can do but hunker down and wait for rescue.
Just hold the phone, good people.
It’s December. This is the middle of winter. Now, some years we get winters that are barely worth the name. I’ve seen Decembers that needed sun lotion. I’ve seen Decembers that you hardly notice. On the other hand, we all remember the year the M8 turned into a giant car-flavoured popsicle.
This December has decided to make a bit of a name for itself, that’s all.
Bag snobbery is a real carry on
You must forgive me, but I am becoming obsessed with carrier bags because we have to pay for them now. Well, they are handy to have but they do clutter the planet up, especially if whipped about by a Weatherbomb.
I don’t mind. I’m a bit of a Rainbow warrior for endangered species, with the exception of pandas, of course.
My antipathy to those glorified pyjama cases currently lurking in our zoo, with every whim and fancy catered to like pampered royalty, is well documented. They can’t even breed. Pandas, that is. Royalty seems to have taken to this heir and spare thing with gusto. In fact, it could probably give those great black and white lumps a tip or two.
Anyway, what with reuse of carrier bags being compulsory now, I can’t help notice the rise of carrier bag snobbery. Wander into any shop with a John Lewis carrier bag and feel the love. Assistants fawn and smile. They insist on you having a nice day, even if you don’t want to have one.
The smile betrays a certain twitch when a carrier bag embossed with the name of a discount supermarket is unfurled before them. Why, the atmosphere can get distinctly chilly. I’m thinking of taking a quick run to London and stocking up on Harrods bags to flog at Waverley.
Your phone call home is very important to us
I called the house to see if a parcel had arrived. The son answered, with his new deep rumbly voice.
“Hi,” I said, “it’s me, mum.”
“How do I know?” he said.
“Cos it’s me,” I said.
“I’ll have to ask you a security question,” he said. “What’s the name of the cat?”
It’s a trick question. We’ve got two. I won.
Naming storms should be gone with the wind
Who’s running about giving weather stage names, anyway? I blame the Americans, even though they needed to have the name of Hurricane Bawbag explained to them.
Or it could be overexcited meteorologists, a breed I had always hitherto thought to be a calm, reliable sort of scientific person, with horn-rimmed glasses and pens in their top pockets.
Now it seems they sit in offices shrieking like teenage girlies every time the weather does something a bit freaky, which, let’s face it, it seems to do every day now, and vying to make up nicknames.
Calm yourselves, weather predictors. One of you lot gave the nod that led to D-Day. There was a window of calm in the weather to land the invasion force. I bet they didn’t burst into Eisenhower’s office screaming, “It’s great for invasion! Let’s call it a ThorHammerFlatCalm!”