I always find myself bitching this time of year about the decided lack of white in the Bergen Christmas. Nor do I bitch alone. The entire city takes note, and grumbles accordingly.
Gray, rain, drizzle, gloam, gloam, gloam.
Two white Christmases in fifteen years. Two. And one of those was more a hoary dusting than a legitimate blanket. The other one, I was in the States. Hardly counts.
Apparently, though, the Gods have been listening. "Snow?" they said, "You want snow for Christmas? Fine. We'll give you your precious snow! Take THAT whiney mortals! And THAT! And THAT! And some gale force winds to go with it! You'll take it, and you'll take it all in one day. You'll like it too, because it is our benevolent gift to you. Merry fucking Christmas."
We went from the mildest November and early December in decades, to the coldest day in December like ever, to half a meter of snow. And all this delightful change occurred in less than a week.
It took me four hours to clear the stairs, a narrow path on the drive up to the road, and a small patch just large enough to park the car. Four hours.
Did I have a snow shovel? No.
We rarely get more than six, seven, eight centimeters of snow fall at the most. So, for the most part, I make do with a broom to clear the stairs. A snow shovel has just never been very high on my list of priority purchases.
Consider it priority number one this cold, white, winter's morn.