The wrong kind of snow

Sorry about the last post being rubbish. Despite being hurriedly put together on a 35″ TV, the resolution was something like 480 x 320 and the text was basically unreadable. So while I did have interesting thoughts on Freddie and Montserrat* (basically some nonsense about how, listening to “Barcelona“, you can detect the tension between two virtuosi in their respective fields, though Freddie gets much the best of it – Montserrat is underused and probably found it a frustrating process – anyway, what an amazing song), probably best ignore my ramblings and move on.

…to some more ramblings, this time from a grim harpy. Liz Jones may be the worst person in the world. She’s certainly the stupidest. Thanks for making me feel so angry, you terrible cock.

It’ll take me a few posts to say all I want to say about Finland, but gazing out of my window on Monday lunchtime in Soho, I notice it’s snowing proper fat, swirling flakes. It doesn’t seem to do this in Finland, where it’s too cold for big, wet Christmas-card flakes to form. The snow there is tiny, millimetre-sized dots which form a snow of the purest powder which is entirely impossible to mould into a snowball (which is lucky because, presumably, the entire country would come to a standstill between October and April and snowball-related fatalities would become a leading cause of premature demise). Over our stay, the temperature remained rigidly between -3 and -7 degrees, with little wind and only the slightest snowfall, though there was a good 18 inches of standing snow lying pristine over every undisturbed surface. See future bloggings for pictures.

*I wonder how many sumo wrestlers go to fancy dress parties as Montserrat Caballe? It wouldn’t require much of an effort as she already looks Japanned.

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