Sweetheart this city has beautiful, beautiful snow

"Last day in December
and the world is a white line of unshovelled cars,
'cause you can walk to the bars.
In a town where the drinkers are ploughed like the roads,
in a heap round their breakfasts in yesterday's clothes.
Sweetheart, this city has beautiful, beautiful snow..."

An unspecified prize goes to anyone that can correctly identify the quote (and with it the entry title) without cheating. It's been snowing on and off here for a few days, it snowed first the morning of the 27th -- although I was in Portsmouth, on the coast, so we didn't see any until we got further inland towards London. By the time I got home the snow had been melted by the incessant rain and I headed straight back out to work.

It was hardly any time at all before Laura got in turns hyperactive and frustrated because it was snowing, and because she couldn't go out and play. I was more bemused at her moods, but the way the lights outside would light up the big flakes of snow did have a certain atmosphere. The pub was quiet -- in that sort of post-Christmas, before going back to work, on a cold wet night sort of way. The snow was intermittently heavy, and then light, and then heavy, and then stopping. Laura would keep me informed of its current status whenever she ran to the window to check. She wanted to make a snowman before the snow even covered the grass.

Like I say, this was Tuesday night. Since then the snow was steadily melting, until this morning, when there had been a heavy snowfall overnight. It frustrates me, snow and no winter sports. I'm scraping together my savings for a snowboard holiday this season -- comparing Utah with Eruopean destinations, wondering if I'll have to go alone, or worse yet not go at all.

I can't believe I'm writing a whole entry about snow.

I dreamed the other night I was joining the RAF. I've talked about it before, I've seriously considered it and had them send me information packs. But recently I shrugged and threw it out, and said it wasn't going to happen. And there I thought it ended. But in my dream I was in a recruitment office, and instead of wanting to be a photographer I was interested in being a gunner. Something I have taken one look at and thought "canon fodder" in the past. I don't think the dream last long before the scene turned into a gym and the recruiter chick was trying to kiss me or something. The dream was hardly worth mentioning if one of my colleagues today hadn't mentioned he applied to be a photographer, in the RAF. He said he wanted to be a physical training assistant or something, but didn't get the points. He didn't elaborate on why he didn't go through with it -- maybe like me they said there was a very long wait, and he said to forget it. But he also mentioned they told him there were vacancies to be a gunner, and he laughed at the suggestion.

It's funny sometimes the things you have in common with the people you least expect it.