The snow falls some more
until the sky becomes pixilated and it momentarily feels
as if I am walking inside of a Seurat. A series of dots
forming a whole picture but not close enough to join
up. The Inuit love snow. They have an extensive vocabulary
to describe the various types and effects of it - Pictuluk,
piqtulukuq, qanik, quaniktuq, tugiu, sikuliaq, illauyiniq
to name but a few. In Britain we have an extensive vocabulary
for genitals- is this all our culture boils down to?
Somebody has started to
complain about the weather and it is no different from
fiddling with imaginary things in your pocket or sending
text messages to a friend. It’s just something
people do when they are stuck in awkward situations.
A coping mechanism for those lonely moments, the moments
we spend our whole life trying to fill.
Now that the silence has
been broken and the British weather has become a unifying
force that everybody is keen to discuss, the snow does
not seem so special. Before when it drifted around in
the sky and landed on my skin it felt like something
was blowing wet kisses at me. Now it has become an inconvenience,
a personal insult, something which others could do without.