Today it started out reasonably mild, with a light, misty rain. And one of the best, most beautiful dawn choruses I’ve ever heard. Chilly breeze, though, which whipped up as the light increased.
As did the rain. And then the hail storm. And then the snow. Nasty, wet snow, of the kind that’s designed not to settle but to hit you hard with horrid, clinging globs of cold. Enough to freeze the warts off a witch.
Walking from the supermarket to the car was an ordeal. Walking from the car to Graham’s mother’s flat was an agony. Walking from the flat back to the car was an exercise in sweet self torment.
“When we get back home,” I said, “can we stay inside in the warm for the rest of the day, please?”
“You betcha we can.”
And then, earlier this evening, we got to talking about our early days. About punk. About the Sex Pistols. About Hazel O’conner (sp?). And then, finally, about Poly Styrene and Xray Spex:
“Were we ever so young?” I asked.
“Hard to imagine.”
“Did we ever do the pogo?”
“Oh, yes. We did the pogo alright. I don’t think you ought to try it now, though.”
“No. I think one good pogo would kill me.”
