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The Tube around Christmas time was ridiculous. So crammed that you share a look, a smile, a laugh at the stranger a few folks down. More than five stops together almost counts as a friendship. An anonymous bond formed by the unspoken joke of it all: the futility of resistance.
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The snowflakes were huge. They fell on Trafalgar Square with a hushed thud. The yellow streetlights gave the winter a sepia filter. For a few brief and stolen moments, the city was blanketed: timeless and hushed. Then the shrieking, honking traffic shattered the Dickens of it all.
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The cold is creeping, settling between the bones and flesh. And still I love this season; my breath drifting idly as my feet avoid the ice. Cold that brings tears to the eyes. The layers of cotton and wool, tucked in. The glory of an open fire and the comfort of a dram.
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Scotland is, for the most part, covered in a white winter blanket. That is no bad thing.
1 comment:
I took the entire platter and ate them all. I’m a words pig and don’t care. Particularly juicy were the More than five stops bit and huge snowflakes falling with a hushed thud and the cold creeping, settling between the bones and flesh. Oh, the glory of being fat and happy in the belfry!
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