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Oh baby, it's cold outside

I say cold, it's damn well freezing. We're talking hot water bottles, extra blankets on the bed and whisky-laced hot milk. Oh maybe just whisky.

So really I'd better scurry
Beautiful, please don't hurry
well Maybe just a half a drink more
Put some music on while I pour
I had another early morning, doing a hundred mile round trip for work. Up before the dawn, I got outside to find frost patterns etched on the tarmac with tiny glistening halos about the occassional piece of grit. I was on a train with three other people (four if you count the driver) heading into the depths of North Devon as the dawn rose.

Outside everything was silver: the clouds, the frosted roofs and trees, the frozen floodwater on the fields and the torrents in the rivers. As the train rattled along, a flock of white birds suddenly rose up and wheeled across a darkly silhouetted hillside, the icy water below them.

It was the sort of image that, if you saw in a film, you would say was impossibly contrived but it was almost worth being up before dawn for. Almost.

Now where's that whisky?

Posted @ 10:08 pm on Monday, December 20, 2004
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