Generally speaking, I am not a great one for succombing to the mass hysteria usually prompted by a faint dusting of snow in London. But this morning, when I literally had to shove the door open because of the drift against it and found the Tube suspended and buses vanquished, I buried my hands deep in my pockets, mooched back home and declared myself defeated. It has finally, actually snowed in London. Properly and realistically disruptively.
And bloody inconvenient it is too. Marie has gone off up to the Heath to partake in the general air of festivity which has descended, but I am holed up by the fire, occasionally clicking 'Refresh' on my Outlook and finding working from home lonely, boring and difficult. Planning a shoot in 24 hours is tricky enough, not least when your team are spread across London all feeling grumpy and cold and wet.
It is all a bit retro in these parts in 2009, a bleak midwinter if ever there was one. While we all huddle around our fireplaces in Dickensian/Little Matchstick Girl-stylee, we are galloping towards a recession which has a distinctly 1930s feel about it (tea and bread and butter at the Lyons Corner House, anyone?) and the trade unions are bafflingly rising like a phoenix from the flames to recapture some 1970s glory. Votes for women!
Anyway, work...
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