Siberia on the Misbourne

Be careful what you pray for, because you might just get it. I dedicate this Seasonal cheesy snack of an observation to anyone who’s been praying for a white Christmas. This year, in our little pocket of the Chilterns, we seem to be about to get one. Like King George V in 1932, it is only through one of the marvels of modern Science I am enabled to communicate. All other media have fallen over.

Bing Crosby used to reckon a snowy whiteout was ideal for Christmas cards. Really? With iced up roads, and a flaky rail service, I beg to differ, Mr so-called Crosby. Furthermore we have a seasonal tradition of trouble and strife at the Royal Mail. This august organisation seems to be managed with all the finesse of the 1920‘s foreign legion. Simple rational command and control breeds irrational anger. Floggings will continue until the workforce become a caring sharing integrated team of skilled 21st Century professionals. I should Cocoa.

An impending white Christmas is not comfortable but it brings some simple joys — beauty, a house full of effervescent teenagers, the joy of sledging down the road, passing on my way, with schadenfreude, some poor geezer in a giant Merc trying to drive it forwards and finding his trusty steed will only go sideways. Large Mercedes do that, I’m told. Yet another reason not to pop out and buy one. Not that anyone’s popping anywhere right now.

We are staggering around in slightly undersized wellies through a very British winter wonderland. We wonder what’s happened to the gritting lorries, and whether the plumbing will hold. We wonder why our public transport is such a shambles. We see Cancelled services — Church as well as buses — abandoned cars on every hill, the cat up to its stomach in snow wondering where to take a dump. 100 stranded staff and customers slept last night in our Wycombe John Lewis store. Today, Lucy offered emergency accommodation to some people sranded in the village, but they managed to get out, in the end, under their own steam.