The Shire and the Winter Queen.

Call me a wimp and a whingepot if you like, but I don’t like winter. It constricts my energies and irritates my mind; it makes me uncomfortable and I’ve had enough of it now. Yes, I know all the arguments about natural cycles and things, but they don’t get snow in the Amazon basin do they, and that’s natural enough. The birds don’t like it either. They were in a bad mood today, especially the blackbirds.

So anyway, The Shire had an air of frigid desolation about it tonight. The pub was in darkness, some of the bigger houses were in darkness, not a single vehicle passed me, no dog barked, no owl hooted, and no wind whispered in the branches. The only sign of life I saw consisted of a pair of arms clad in pink engaged in some presumably mundane occupation at the kitchen window of a cottage in Mill Lane. They at least were moving, I think. The cars standing out in the open, however, looked abandoned, left to atrophy by their human owners and subsequently claimed by the Winter Queen for her petrified menagerie. Even Mistress Moon was wearing her spooky aspect in which the yellow crescent lies on the underside instead of on the right as a proper waxing crescent should. Seeing the two horns turned upward, it was easy to imagine that two sinister eyes might suddenly open and stare at me.

And might I mention that my fingers were tingling, even though I was wearing gloves?

My fingers were tingling, even though I was wearing gloves.