It’s looking suspiciously like we’re beginning to thaw out in my corner of London: the icicles which have been festooning the leaky gutter over our bedroom window have all gone, and it’s back to making plink-plink-plink noises all night. Our snowman’s seen better days, too: his nose is falling off, and he looks like he’s been hitting the whisky. Hard.
Mind you, while towing Small Boy along on his sledge this morning (it’s like the resistance training ballet dancers do with tyres and stuff, only more prone to squealing) I spotted an honest-to-goodness snow-woman–with bejewelled breasts, no less. Ample ones. I’ve no idea how they’re staying up, to be honest. Three doors down the same road, there was a Dr Who snowman, wearing a fez and a bow-tie, and clutching a sonic screwdriver.
And just to finish off the frosty theme, have some AFI, prancing around in the snow and carrying off hairdye like only a truly committed post-hardcore band can…
(And no, I have no idea where that link originally went to. But hey, it’s there now, so let’s skim over that, shall we? Move along. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.)