Whenever it snows I secretly look forward to seeing people slip over. Bwahahahahaha. Let me rephrase that. Whenever it snows I sometimes get pleasure out of seeing people slip over as long as nobody is hurt.  I know, I know, my civilised instincts are unparalleled.

It snowed heavily over the weekend. The town looked fantastic. It’s always pretty, Harrogate that is, but a snowy Harrogate is a beautiful one. The Stray looked delightful, dark frames of trees contrasting sharply with a vast blanket of white. Such whiteness, it looked like a scene from Narnia. Everything was white. I even saw a chap wearing a white jacket, white hoody, white trousers and white trainers with white laces. He carried a white bag and was playing on a white Nintendo DS. Bit dangerous really, especially if the White Witch was in the vicinity. What if he fell in the snow and couldn’t get up? I’d have played on a red DS just in case.

I walked through town on my way home. A man came out of a pub for a smoke. He smoked like a true Yorkshireman, back inside 30 seconds later after a relentless, aggressive sequence of double-puffs. Flat cap, blue, long grey hair, bedraggled, a face that said ‘bloody snow, bloody cold’. He was right. The bleakness was refreshing, the town picturesque, but it was bloody cold, far too cold, and I looked forward to getting home.

As I passed the solicitors a suited gentleman stood shivering on the steps. Dark grey suit, dark red tie, dark black hair, another stark contrast against the snow. He wore shiny black brogues. Picked the wrong day to wear brogues mate, I thought. Balanced on the steps, clutching a salt-shaker, he shook it about with the delicate air of a man in brogues on snow on steps. Brogues notwithstanding it made perfect sense, the recession is bad enough without rich clients slipping on his steps and breaking bones.

I hear a cry behind me. The solicitor is on his back at the foot of the steps, floundering about in the snow like a penguin in a toboggan accident. He clambered to his feet, brushed himself off and pretended nothing had happened. I paused and savored the moment, then headed home. Time to introduce Bubba Stoneskin to snow for the first time.   She squirmed excitedly and pressed her little hands against the glass.

“Milk?” she said.

Dark Bambi eyes, cute button nose, contagious smile, dainty frame, proud little pout. She is my princess, my little princess, her father’s joy. She dances, she sings, runs to me when I get home.  ’Diddy’ she calls me and asks after me when I’m gone.

Determined she is, a little busybody. She rushes here, there, everywhere. I watch her as she potters about. Careful little steps, pouting as she goes, carrying a little handbag – mimicking her mummy – a little lady and she makes me proud…

She walks across the room to the table. Careful steps, short little baby steps, then looks round at me and grins. My soul melts. Out of her handbag she pulls a star, a chunky metal behemoth of a star. Clasped in her little fist she raises it to the sky, glances across at me, watch this Daddy, and smashes the damn thing down on a chair.

That’s right, my precious little daughter is a vandal.

Vandalism

Miniature Christmas tree, pepper mill, lighted candle. They sat on the table like three wise men or a scene from one of those unutterably dire “incredible journey” movies. An elderly couple arrived and sat at the neighbouring table. She was dressed like a confused goddess, draped in coats, shawls, scarves and things. He was clad almost entirely in black. Jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes, all were black. “Two G&T’s,” he ordered, “Bombay if you have it.”

But the tie, his tie was hideous. Capable of inflicting moral and intellectual damage upon any diner that saw it. Bright red with arty black shapes scattered in wild abandon. I could make out some stars, a couple of squares, numerous squiggles, various giraffe segments and possibly Che Guevara’s head. It probably wasn’t, he was too posh and too Tory for ol’ Che, but it was definitely a head.

His face reminded me of Sam, an old school friend who was affectionately known as “Bam”. A pointless detail, you wouldn’t know him. Her face rabbitesque, her hair phenomenal, a fluffy mushroom-like bouffant precarious on her head. She looked like a rabbit wearing a World War I helmet. I could just about hear their conversation.

“Your top looks nice,” he was saying, “much better than I thought it would.” Talk about digging a hole. Restaurant murder: Wife strangles husband with hideous neck-tie.

I never heard Rabbit’s response. A party of eight clattered in, eight extravagant well-to-do ladies. Flowing dresses, monstrous rings, necklaced to the hilt, designer glasses, massive hair-dos. One of them in a sequined jacket, I thought those things were illegal. The largest of the eight was licking her fingers. I kid you not, it must have been anticipation – no food had been served.

On the way out we had to navigate past two black bears that were fighting in the doorway. Turns out they were old ladies, not bears and they weren’t fighting either, they were grappling with the zips on their giant black fur coats. Easy mistake to make.