Woolly Mammoths on the High Street

Even if the very icicles of despondency are lined up in ranks upon the frozen guttering of our lives, there is still always the chance that a thaw is only hours away and that soon the ice will melt and once more we will be able to sally forth without the fear of stumbling into solidly frozen brass monkeys. However, should that this icy winter of our despondency continue beyond what could be regarded as normal - or even reasonable - then the woolly jumpers we huddle inside may no longer be enough and the thought of naked skin against skin becomes little more than a faded memory as a full be-mittening is considered essential for even indoor wear. All while we shiver as the central heating dial seems to run of out numbers before it even seems to dent the solidity of this coldness. It comes to a time where woolly mammoths on the High Street would hardly merit a second glance.

Even the children seem to have grown weary of sledges and the remains of all the novelty-genitalled snowmen hardly seem to merit even a wry smile as the cold and the snow seem to grow a permanence to themselves and the sight of everything buried under a heaping of whiteness has now become the norm.

Spring sees further off than ever and the idea of summer seems to have less substance to it than a politician’s promise as we trudge through lives that have become a battle against the elements to even live up to what we once considered normal.

In such weather even a trip to the supermarket becomes like a polar expedition where we know we will lose at least one of our party to the wild polar bears that we now expect to run wild across the great deserted snow-sheeted car parks that once seemed never to have a free space. Even the fresh food aisle seems as bare as those from soviet-era Russia, and – seemingly – colder and greyer too.