Snow Hangover

After walking all the way from Stokes Croft to Bower Ashton in a few hours, rolling around in the snow several times on the way and stopping only for thali and chai at the new Thali Café at the top of Hensman's hill, I wake up the day after with glands looking as frog's skin blown out to attract a mate. Bunged up doesn't begin to cover it. One whole day I sit on the sofa. It's great. Then, this morning I wake up expecting to feel better actually feeling worse. I'll have to go and get that Lemsip. I don't usually do drugs. So I put on my hardcore boots, my hand knitted scarf and my in-aid-of-Tibetan-children's-villages hat and walk over the soft white blanket to Somerfield's. The queue ahead is long. The queue is unaware of it's humour. Everyone has a rosy tinge to their nose. The guy in front of me has a packet of paracetamol in his basket as well as two bottles of wine. The sound of the decrepit snake is one of baskets shuffling along the floor protesting the stall in their recovery without words. It's just a little cold people, we're all going to survive.