Winter blues. Or greys. Or some kind of hazy white colour.
They say there are two winters in one year. Whoever they are. But these miserable misers would have a point—if you let them.
The instant you decide that ‘tis the season, you step out into January and the Ice Queen swoops down in her bob-sled like an owl upon a rat, turning you to frosted stone with two flicks of her magic wand. It’s happened to me twice, you know. Though in the first instance I was clad in a green and yellow bathrobe and could talk to squirrels. I’d also been smacked on the head by an almighty tree-branch just moments prior. And had expleted in front of St. Patrick’s Monument.*
Even when the fields of spring come rolling round on March 21st, winter still hasn’t really been deposed for the year. Come December 21st, Ice Queen steps out of a cave somewhere, and ensnares all things in ice, before inadvertently falling down a mineshaft. When I was a lad, however, winter began and ended with Christmas, and was promptly swept aside when January happened by. Thusly, the winter blues could only happen during Christmas Time—a statistical impossibility—and the Ice Queen was invariably in Santa’s custody. Or stuck in a colliery.
So there need not be two winters in one year. Winter need not even last a month! It’s all psychological, see.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
