And Then The Snow Came

A bit of snow and we're all panicking... or not, depending on where you work I suppose. Doesn't bother me because I don't leave the house, so I can just watch the pretty whiteness descending as I toast crumpets in front of the gas fire (because its so damned cold in the ice cavern that is my kitchen).

Proper workers had a nightmare getting to their offices this morning. I know this because I received a 'flurry' of expletive-laden emails from mates - one simply read 'FARKIN SNOW!" in size 56 font.

Some people didn't even attempt to go in. Had I been one of the 'normal' people, I wouldn't have bothered either... there's nothing fun about tramping to or from the city centre in a snowstorm - trust me, I know about these things.

Here's what I writted when I last worked in the city and the snow came:

"The annoyingly chirpy weather woman on GMTV this morning said the snow would turn to rain later, so I set out to work armed with the knowledge that the white stuff currently falling from the sky would cease and all would be well with the world once more.

Got to work, still snowing.

Went out for a faaag at 10.30, still snowing.

Midday, and its still snowing.

At 3pm large flakes are careering passed the office window with increasing regularity, and it's sticking. Memories of trudging through the snow to get home come back to haunt me with alarming vividness.

"I'm off," I tell my boss, snatching up my fur hat and coat.

"I don't blame you," she says.

And I make a run for it.

Jump on a bus. Traffic slow, but not terrible. I get out my book. We crawl up Broad Street. We slither around Five Ways Island. We hit standstill traffic by the White Swan pub and sit there for 30 minutes. Another 30 minutes to crawl up the hill to Harborne. The High Street is gridlocked with traffic struggling to stay in a straight line and not mount the pavements.

I read my book for another 20 minutes, optimistically chanting, 'We'll get home , we'll get home'.

And then the bus driver, in a rare moment of passenger communication, yells, "Everybody off. Traffic's at a standstill, can't go any further."

And the full horror of the situation hits me.

I was going to have to walk.

I pull up the collar on my Russian coat, wrap my scarf several times around my face so just my eyes show, pull my bag strap over my head, and off I go, stepping straight into the grey slush right up to my ankles.

And the slog begins. I live nowhere near Harborne. I have a trek of Captain Scott proportions ahead of me. I slither and slide passed all the gridlocked traffic like Bambi on ice. It's freezing, it's wet, it's deep, and still bloody snowing. That chirpy GMTV weathergirl needs to be taken into a room and given a damn good thrashing, the lying cow.

Onwards, along with all the other foresaken commuters fighting through the blizzards to get home. A young, skinny girl marches passed me in high stiletto boots, oblivious to the snow and strutting like she's on a catwalk - how the hell does she do that?

Onwards. A group of hooded youths swagger towards me. I stay on my straight(ish) path and so do they, clearly thinking the snow-covered hag will move out of the way for them. The hell! I've just spent nearly an hour trudging through knee high snow and black sludge, suffocated by the exhaust fumes of a thousand motionless cars, and I'm more than a little pissed off. I stomp onwards, willing to fight for the path ahead if necessary. The youths launch themselves into the snowdrift at the side of the road, and on I trudge.

And on.

And on.

I slip, I slide, but by some miracle I don't fall over. One foot in front of the other, nowhere near home, my feet and my clothes sopping wet. It all seems very surreal, but there's a soothing rhythm to the crunching of feet in snow. A woman ahead of me falls over and no less than 10 fellow trekkers rush to her aid - it's that kind of atmosphere.

I start to flag. I pull out my MP3 player and crank up Bodyrockers, the perfect snow trudging music. I like the way you mooo-oooove stomp stomp stomp.

And onwards. Forever onwards. Up a hill, down a hill, gridlocked traffic everywhere, cars skidding and sliding, buses roaring like ungainly dinosaurs. My husband calls my mobile phone to say he's stuck in the car in Quinton. The whole of Birmingham and beyond has come to a shuddering standstill.

And still it snows. And onward I plod. My bladder swells to the size of a Zeppelin balloon and I eye up potential bushes along the way, but can't bring myself to scurry behind them for relief, not with the eyes of a thousand stranded motorists all around. I just keep walking. And walking. One foot in front of the other.

I finally reach familiar surroundings, albeit colourless. It's now 5.30pm, over two hours since I raced out of my office building, over an hour since I jumped off the bus. A man walks along the path towards me, not veering to one side to let me pass. How rude! The man reaches out and takes my hand, and I'm more than a little surprised. No harm in mass camaraderie in the face of extreme hardship, but intimate groping is a definite no-no. Fortunately the gripping hand belongs to my husband, who managed to crawl home in the car and then came straight back out to search for me (star!).

Together we walk hand-in-hand, parting only to push the a neighbour's car out of the snow and for Hubs to race ahead and unlock the front door so I could shimmy wetly to the toilet.

Oh the relief! Home at last.

My Russian coat, when I peel it off, is so sodden it weighs more that I do. My black fur hat is white and stiff with snow, and my sensible Clarks shoes are swollen like sponges.

It took me more than three hours to get home tonight, risking frostbite and injury. But I did it.

I won't be doing it again."

And in fact I never did.

So I'm thinking of you all out there in the cold, harsh world, as I sit here in front of the fire working on my laptop.

All hate mail to...

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (come rain or shine or snowstorm)
Brummie Blogs: Hiding out there rest of time.