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when from my horse i fell
Jan. 27th, 2009 10:33 pmThey say it's the coldest winter in seven years. No kidding, says I, but, stupidly intrepid as ever, I drape myself over with scarves and wraps and set out to brave the cold. Sometimes a bite of fresh chocolate is worth the trouble. (Sometimes it's just one of those days.) It's very cold, very very very cold, pardon me while I cease to be capable of thinking about anything else! There are hardly any people out downtown, and everything's got that odd, post-apocalyptic look to it, so that, if you are me, you start to have really odd thoughts, like, what if time's been frozen just like everything else? And if you are even a little superstitious in that way, you start peering into places where people tend to be, and are both relieved and disappointed to find that they are still there, doing people things, not stilled like flies in amber, in the midst of taking clothes out of the dryer, or ordering a sandwich, or taking down a window display. (And then you feel a little silly and start thinking Grown-Up Thoughts to make up for it.)
So I'm walking home, chocolates in hand (if I could describe Hockman's peppermint truffles, I would, but words crumble before their splendour; hang silly weak ambrosia, what they eat in the lands of the gods are homemade peppermint truffles), and the wind's gotten a bluster to it, blowing drifts of snow over the sidewalk, and birds keep flying over the church steeples and the skeletons of trees, and it's one of those days when I think, if only Neil Gaiman were writing my life...
So when a dark figure ploughs straight into me, it almost feels exactly right, except for the bit where I'm on the pavement and it's cold and my chocolates have just gone everywhere, and ow. (Also the bit where it is manifestly his fault, because someone being clumsier than me probably means the entire universe has gone off balance.) Only then I look up and good heavens it's him. The world abruptly ceases to make any kind of sense.
His hair is actually significantly nicer up close. So is his coat.
( Read more... )
So I'm walking home, chocolates in hand (if I could describe Hockman's peppermint truffles, I would, but words crumble before their splendour; hang silly weak ambrosia, what they eat in the lands of the gods are homemade peppermint truffles), and the wind's gotten a bluster to it, blowing drifts of snow over the sidewalk, and birds keep flying over the church steeples and the skeletons of trees, and it's one of those days when I think, if only Neil Gaiman were writing my life...
So when a dark figure ploughs straight into me, it almost feels exactly right, except for the bit where I'm on the pavement and it's cold and my chocolates have just gone everywhere, and ow. (Also the bit where it is manifestly his fault, because someone being clumsier than me probably means the entire universe has gone off balance.) Only then I look up and good heavens it's him. The world abruptly ceases to make any kind of sense.
His hair is actually significantly nicer up close. So is his coat.
( Read more... )
