Variations On A Theme Of Grey

It is not exactly a wasteland but it is a form of devastation. The ice clings to the pavements and some roads and you imagine it might never leave. The cold is deep and damp and winter, you can so easily believe, will be here forever and without relent. I looked to the sky in hope, for hope. Surely the BBC weather had forecast some sun? The sky stared back without pity and wanted to crush the last vestiges of optimism. The part of me that wanted to go out and defy the lack of light to take photographs fought with the part of me that wanted to curl up and sleep, perhaps forever. There were, in fact, variations in the grey as the slightest teasing hints of something better blew from the north. But the sky would have its victory and even as I mentally dressed to leave the house, more grainy if somewhat desultory snow fell and sucked anticpation from the air.

If hope was indeed gone with the wind then tomorrow would have to be another day, a day to wake with new hopes, a day to start again. It would be a final day off before being returned to a cauldron of struggling airports with their dejected, displaced crowds wondering if some fragment of their own hopes might be rescued. I can play my own small unseen part in righting a capsized Christmas for as many of them as possible.

I let lunchtime pass and the snow continued. It was of little physical significance but greater psychological importance. I surrendered my body to staying in the house and my mind to a happier place on another day.