...despite all evidence to the contrary. I know that the flash floods in Brisbane must have been borne of some dramatic, cataclysmic, seismic overhaul of the currents and the air-pressures and the cloud systems and suchlike (in my mind I see the people who live in the clouds in James and the Giant Peach throwing hissyfits and snowballs and taking out their rage on terra firma) but it simply does not compute that the world as a whole could be getting warmer when I am this fucking cold.
Empirical evidence aside, the font of all knowledge in my life currently is my JTE and his wife, who possesses some sixth sense with regards the Sapporo climate. And he tells me that this is a positively warm winter. That the amount of snow that has fallen is minimal. That -6 is tropical compared to the winters of yore.
I hate yore. I don't know why anyone ever lived there.
This morning was bright and clear-skied and I watched Grey's Anatomy as I got dressed (only two thermals instead of the usual layered three, DARING), drank coffee, left my apartment, locked the door, unlocked the door, went back in to retrieve my three bags of unburnable garbage (since it is Thursday and only those things that are unburnable might be submitted for disposal, presumably by burying or simply throwing up into the air and running away since it, by very definition, is refuse that refuses to burn), locked the door, walked down the hallway, slipped and caught myself, remembered why I never wear these boots even though they are leather and very attractive and cost $400, continued down the hallway, slipped and failed to catch myself, fell on my arse and three bags of unburnables, speculated on whether burnables or unburnables would make for a softer landing, got back on my feet, and boarded the elevator, punching the buttons more aggressively than was strictly necessary.
At least it was a nice day, I thought to myself, as I jauntily swung the (squashed) bags of rubbish into the... rubbish place.
Ten steps further: snow. Light, soft, a gentle dusting.
Twenty more steps: Heavier snow. Much heavier. Ear muffs - donned. Scarf clutched tighter. Third, abandoned thermal remembered with regret.
Ten minutes later: unadulterated blizzard. I look like a chocolate lamington.
I sat on the train and grumbled into my scarf as my shoulders melted into my pockets.
When I arrrived at the BOE, I was greeted by a message on the whiteboard, informing me that Sapporo was expecting heavy snowfall this week, and that we might expect both trains and buses to be running behind schedule. Apparently, this is old news to everyone but me.
As I melted gently onto the carpet, as my ears turned from a violent blue to a healthier purple, I speculated on global warming.
I considered Brisbane, New Orleans, Chile.
I ruminated on aerosols, on petrol, on my carbon footprint.
I thought about the snow drifts, my ruined fringe, the icicles on my eyelashes.
And I decided this: I want a chocolate lamington.