No stars, no wind, no fog, no snow. (The only time I like
snow is when I’m walking on it at night. I think it might have something to do
with a teenage memory of giving my coat to Pauline McNicol when we were walking
to the pub one cold, snowy night in December. I just wasn’t made for this
century, you know. Come to think of it, it was the last century, but you know
what I mean.)
No strange noises the other side of the hedgerow, no mysterious
shadows that have no right be there, no pulsating lights in the stark branches
of winter trees, no Rottweilers with steaming breath playing Killer Dogs from
The Omen.
And I still haven’t found an instant hot chocolate I really
like.
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