Little worlds die on my shoulders. It's a Monday night's journey back to the house, but not as we know it, Jim.
Take a five-hour bus journey that normally takes a mere three. An inconvenience on most days, but today, when all I had waiting for me was a flexible work commitment, it was glorious. A gorgeous blanket that hugs the countryside like a lost friend. One which flits away unless it keeps crying. Imagine a girlfriend who hasn't seen you in ages, but every time you meet, it might be your last. That's what it's like when it snows in Ireland.
Then you remember why you got away from her in the first place. It's cold. It's unfeeling. It's wet. All it wants to do is weep, and weep some more. But you tolerate it, because you might never feel this way again.
Eventually, you revel in it. You want to throw down whatever it is you have thrown across your shoulders and dance through it until you slip on the slush, fall on your arse and burst out laughing. You don't care how many times it melts on your cheeks, launching wave after wave of attack, because you're too immersed in the moment to care. You watch countless films where characters frolic in the snow, and you wish you could do it too. Maybe I'm just impressionable.
Then it fades, and you regret it, knowing you could have done so much more. But not right now. Enjoy the moment.