Winter Constraint.

The early chapters of JP Donleavy’s A Fairytale of New York, follows the MC as he arranges and attends the funeral of his wife who died on the crossing from Europe.

The day of the funeral is a hard one in a typical New York City winter. There’s much cold and wind and snow and rubbing of hands and stamping of feet, but everyone involved in the proceedings works through the conditions as though they don’t exist.

That’s what I find so difficult to do these days. The cold and wind and rain and ice and relative darkness and damnable white stuff wrap me in a frigid straightjacket, suppressing both normal physical abilities and effective brain function. Everything I know I need to do requires the harnessing of a most reluctant will, or else it doesn’t get done at all.

It wasn’t always like this, so whether it’s due to the effects of ageing, the softening of resolve, or my ever increasing sensitivity to ambient conditions, I really don’t know. But it’s a nuisance.