Confession of a snowflake

Odd weather in which to talk about snowflakes, I know. But a recent comment by an MP suggesting that those of us who simply want to slow down during this Siroccan weather are snowflakes left me seething. When I cooled down, I pondered: wherein lies the insult? Did said MP actually intend his likening of us to these beautiful, magical flakes as a compliment? Because the more I think about it, the more I liken a collection of snowflakes to the human race. On the surface, a ball of snow is just a ball of snow. Looked at under a microscope, the snowball is a collection of beautiful and precise crystals, each one as unique as a fingerprint. On its own, a snowflake melts in a heartbeat. Collectively, snowflakes form a carpet on the earth’s surface, modifying global warming, providing a facility for snow sports and inspiring creative works, from Old Master paintings to Christmas cards and songs. What snowflakes don’t do is fly the flag for rugged individualism: perhaps this is what our politician friend is missing?

We’re havin’ a heatwave...

Something about extremes of heat lends an air of unreality to everything. Heat blunts the edges of longing, softens feeling, heightens colour. It is no wonder that during certain illness, the body turns on a fever to take away the harshness of the symptoms. Or that many people flock to the warmer corners of the world when on holiday, to add another dimension to the experience of getting away from it all. A wonderful experience and yet, the effects of heat are too like those of opiate drugs, effects that make it too much of a good thing. This heady cocktail of muted colour, hushed sound and somnolent emotion can act as a wanton siren, calling one away from one’s focus, the cutting edge of purpose.

Dear Diary: family planning

The summer ploughs on; the dog days are upon us and our desire to climb on board the property ladder grows ever stronger. I turn over our conversation to you.
Albert: (looking at his phone) a government minister says that if we need more money, we got to find better-paying jobs.
Me: why didn’t we think of that before?
Steven: I did find one, actually, in an animation studio, but it is in London, where rents are higher.
Marcia: your own fault for getting a Mickey Mouse degree: why not go back to college?
Steven: And add to my student loans?
Albert: are we going to admit defeat?
Me: more research is needed, methinks.
(Six nights later and as always, Albert takes the chair.)
Albert: findings on the table, everybody. (deafening silence) Alright, I’ve just found out about the plans for fifty-year mortgages.
Me: what does it mean?
Albert: It means that we can now take out a mortgage and pay it back over fifty years instead of the normal twenty-five.
Steven: so, the payments will be lower?
Albert: you got it in one, me boy.
Me: but we might not live that long?
Albert: no problem: our children will pick up the tab.
Marcia: but we haven’t got any children?
Albert: What a bright bunch I live amongst. (winks at Marcia) Let’s get going on the breeding programme.
Steven: a great move, since it says here (looks at phone) that they are going to tax the child-free.
Albert: (winks at Marcia again) Then, we’d better get to work, quickly.
(to be continued)