I must confess that ever since I was a small child I have had great sympathy with Bob Cratchet from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. This doesn’t really stem from a recognition on my part of how poor he was, or how downtrodden by Scrooge but rather from the fact that the wretched man was perpetually cold.
As soon as I have written this I will have to sally forth to the shops. This will entail me donning a thick coat, sturdy boots, gloves, hat and of course a scarf. Despite all this apparel I will still be shivering all the way there and back and it will take me until this evening to get warm again – not that I’m particularly warm at the moment. It’s hard to type in gloves and the earmuffs make it difficult for me to hear the telephone!
It’s always been like this for me in winter. My Mother, who was perpetually ready with a jolly little saying or poem, seeing me so reluctant to set off for school on each morning between November and March, often used to say in a singsong voice ‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’ It was well intentioned but I can still hear her words and I must admit in my deepest recesses I am saying to her ‘Yes Mother it can be – about four months behind!’
When God (or evolution if you prefer) gave human beings both sturdy legs and an active imagination I wonder if it was really such a good combination? Take me for example: I have dark eyes, dark hair and a dark complexion. It is quite obvious to me and must be to everyone else that I was not genetically prepared for the icy wastes of Northern Europe. Somewhere back in the dim and distant past one of my genetic ancestors looked up from the baking heat of Southern Europe to a range of inviting mountains to the North. “Wow!” he or she thought, “wouldn’t it be good to find out what is beyond those majestic peaks?” The trouble was that since the car had not been invented yet, it would have taken my ancestor a long time to get beyond the mountains to the North. By the time the journey was over, and the curious party discovered ice and snow, the continents had drifted or else sea levels had risen, and it was too late to get back. If it is ever true that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, it’s also a fact that if you keep travelling north, the snow is whiter and deeper on the other side of the mountains.
I have little sympathy for all you blonde, blue eyed types. You belong here, so you can’t really complain about chilblains or slippery footpaths. Mind you, that isn’t true for everyone who occupies the northernmost latitudes. I once read that an anthropologist, who has been living with the Inuit for a protracted period, asked one of the tribe’s elders whether he and his people relished their arctic life. The answer was unequivocal. “We hate it”, he was told. The old man went on to relate that an ancient tribal legend told of how his people had once lived in verdant green pastures but the invasion of the area by a much more warlike people had forced the Inuit further and further north. On the way they were constantly harried by people with bigger spears and a more warlike attitude to life and so could not stop until they had polar bears for neighbours.
“Just because we have become good at catching walrus and seals, doesn’t mean we ‘enjoy’ doing so,” the tribal elder was at pains to point out. Meanwhile my own genetic ancestors were sitting on a Mediterranean beach and sipping the Neolithic equivalent of Pina colada until that one over curious individual got wanderlust.
Last winter was a nightmare. “Oh”, Mrs Altopia kept saying, “just look at the snow on the trees. Isn’t it just beautiful?” I must admit I didn’t look up to see the vista all that often. I was either huddled almost double against the ferocious blasts and driving snow or busy looking where I put my feet so that I didn’t end up on my back again. I keep telling Mrs A that she was born ginger, a variant form of blonde; and since fair people were designed for these latitudes she should expect to derive more pleasure from the winter than I do. She just tells me not to be so grumpy and to enjoy the splendour of it.
I really do think that evolution’s omission as far as human beings are concerned is that we were not also supplied with wings. Given that we only have two legs each, and bearing in mind the existence of seas and oceans, it wouldn’t be very practical to migrate south each winter and back every summer. On the other hand, if we were able to fly, I would now be writing a much more cheerful blog and Mrs A wouldn’t be so weary of my constant verbal onslaught against the elements.
She tries to cheer me up and says “Just think how much luckier we are these days than we were when we were children? There was no central heating then and we used to be able to breathe pictures into the ice on the ‘inside’ of our bedroom windows!” It’s true, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. Each morning, after I have donned innumerable layers of clothing I bend down and open up the large drawer beneath the bed. There I can view the pile of laundered shorts and T shirts, dreaming of the three and a half weeks each year when it will be possible to wear them. I regularly examine the bushes in the garden for signs of new growth and positively ‘will’ the snowdrops to wake up.
The only course left to me is hibernation but Mrs A is far from keen and suggests that with my appetite I wouldn’t last beyond breakfast time on the first morning. She’s probably right and we do have to count our blessings. I can at least remain smug in the knowledge that in a few moments I can press 'send' rather than having to trudge through the driving wind and hail to the post box. But of course I still have to shop for food – now where did I put that shovel?
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