Terror in the snow!

The Met office has downgraded its predictions for climate change. I wonder if big government will take heed and downgrade their plans to bankrupt us by tilting at this particular windmill? I doubt it, but lest I not survive this fearful wintry onslaught I leave you with what may be my last words on Earth. 

Battsby’s Diary. The final entry? 

So, here I am, hunkered down, snug as a bugger in a rug. But that can’t last. The snowflakes gently batter at my fortress perimeter and cloak the earth in deadly white. Deadly? Oh yes. For as long as I have fuel and food I am fortunate, yet it will only last for so long. Then I will surely starve. 

The doom-mongers foresaw this great disaster. Global warming/cooling climate change seasonal variation is upon us. I haven’t seen snow like this for years a year and I don’t know how we will cope. There’s always the telly, I suppose. And the Internet. For while they survive and there is power, there is also hope. 

It has been snowing for three weeks days hours now and I am feeling the stirrings of mania. In my crazed state I cannot trust myself. I could do anything. I may light a log fire shortly... and maybe take a warming cup, a hot toddy. Perhaps I could rustle up some lunch? I could also finish reading my book. So much to do, so little time. This is hell. 

What to do, what to do? The blizzard continues its remorseless onslaught and the blanket of blanc lies fully three two metres feet centimetres on the ground. What gods have we angered? What have we done to offend Gaia so? And what is that noise? A strange ringing in my head. I dimly remember such a noise... 

The horror!

Right, well, that was Jim on the phone. He called from his refuge and seeks my assistance post-haste. I have written down his location and must attend. This is an emergency and my needs must come second to helping my fellow man. Jim informs me he is at a place known as The King’s Head and that it is my round. 

I must go out now... I may be some time.