planes trains and automobiles and popping to asda on the way back for bread, milk, sprouts, and double cream

When they said white why did I think they meant snow? Lots of stuff is or can be white: vests, towels, tiles, tic tacs, shake n vac, Major Tommy Fuckwit, his brother Big Dave, a single disconcerting pubic hair, fog.

Fog has been very white around here. London (down and across a couple of hundred miles) is even whiter, so says the news. So very white that many, many aeroplanes are staying on the ground, resting their wings, the better for their pilots and attendants to wrap up warm and run outside, all excited like, to build a Fogman and have a rowdy fogball fight.

Gareth is usually in Capital City for a block of days every week. This week was a last desperate grab at leave owing, consequently, he just had to go down on Monday, so flew. Easy: now with added peasy. So much easy and peasy, when the inevitable, unmissable meetings coughed politely and tapped him on the shoulder it didn’t seem too much of a pain to ask his leave to hooch up a tad between Wednesday and Friday.

Until Christmas tried so very hard to be white. It does so like to please. Plans changed, and all of a suddenly we remember just how very far a mile is. Plane miles and train miles, the difference is the snuggling on the sofa with too much ginger wine and the Father Ted Christmas Special, and feck arse nuns, a tradition is a tradition.