Friends, we’re just about halfway through the affliction of Farch, but if you think this means there’s any relief in sight, I laugh at your insane and misguided optimism. Yesterday, it was sunny and hovering just above the freezing mark; it was lovely, in other words.
That was Farch getting our hopes up so that today would be more painful, hideous, and inspirational of self-loathing and despair:
Slush. The word doesn’t adequately describe the horror it represents. Slush is more than a simple and unfortunate combination of rain and snow. It is the guarantee of a soaker the moment you step outside. It is cold misery creeping up your leg. It is all your clothes, bags, bag contents, and skin being soaked through no matter what you do to protect yourself.
I grew up in Nova Scotia, where it was like this every second day. You’re right; I’m exaggerating. It was like this in Nova Scotia every three days (every five days in summer). This is the most terrible cause of being cold in the bones and finding it impossible to warm up. As I feel like this right now, and I’ve been home for almost two hours, I’m waxing rather nostalgic about my place of birth. I think I’ll give myself a boiled potato, a smack in the mouf, and a little talk about not getting above myself and it’ll be just like being home again. No wonder the multitudinous members of the east coast diaspora spend so much time longing to return!
I, obviously, will not be leaving the house again today. Whatever is to be ett for dinner must be made from ingredients already in my possession. But as long as there’s tea–and there is, there is–even the food doesn`t matter. 500 soakers in a row, each more abusively cold than the last, is infinitely more damaging to skin and soul than hunger ever could be.