Do I always talk in this passive voice?

I woke up with cold toes this morning.

Partly this is because my quilt came from Mole Valley Farmers' Department Store (No, really) and was a reduced price on account of having four short sides. Mostly it was because I sleep with my window open and it had gone all Stadial outside.

So, then there was the normal diplomacy of shared bathrooms. At what exact moment do I get up in order to maximise the amount of warm-time I can get in without loosing the bathroom to another, less bed-prone, housemate? This morning I lost the game big time, but it didn't matter because then I was able to shave at my leisure. I shave in the shower, and was particularly enjoying callously disregarding the safety switch and turning it up to Red Dot. I tend to be stubbly most of the time, partly because I'm lazy, but mostly because I use cheap razors that would make a pirate grimace. Even so, I was both surprised and more than a little disconcerted to see a stream of water run red, and in when I reached the towelling stage, a few quite large vivid red blots appeared. This, I decided, was a case for a mirror. It was a surreal experience- I had a large, dripping cut just behind the angle of my jaw, on my neck. Instinct told me this was not a good place to be bleeding, though it was obviously a skin wound.

Staunch blood with kitchen paper. Discard plans to wear rollneck.

So then I'm off and away, stopping only to dust the crusted ice from my bike's brake cables and anything else that looks important. Once I'm on the Cowley Road, it's quite clear. Gritting trucks, constant wheels, and exhaust gases (both hot and noxious) had melted all the ice, so I made good time. I'm sure that there's some kind of meteorological paradox on the Cowley Road, though- whatever way I go, it's into the wind. The air is very clear- we're in an anticyclone- and the building look very small and sharp, as if they've been pinched by the cold. It's the perspective that's changed, of course.

When I turn onto Longwall street, the grit disappears and slush takes over. Yesterday Mathematician Greg was telling me about how he (northerner that he is) used to clean his football boots with snow. Snow cleans things- unfortunately that makes the snow itself brown or black, and where it's fallen from the wheel-arch of cars it looks like we've gone back 150 years and they're horse droppings. (Poetic, isn't it?)

Greg of course comes from Skemsredale where they have snow. I come from Devon, which for those of you who don't know, is a peninsula jutting into a current of water that has come at top speed from the Caribbean. This is the fourth time I've seen snow deep enough to leave footprints in, and one of those was a holiday in Norway.

When I turn onto Hollywell street, I find the action of feet and bicycles (which don't crush so much, and have no exhaust pipes) has not melted the snow, but just turned it into ice. Maybe if I go fast, inertia will keep me upright? It's sound in practice, but I decide not to put it into practice. Unfortunately it puts itself into practice as I go around the turning into Mansfield Road- when I turn the wheel the bike says that it's rather keep going in the same direction, and that it is unhappy to find it's front wheel at right angles to the direction of motion. I have time to reflect on what I should have done differently as the bike lands on top of me.

Snow has a very special effect on us English. We're on the same line of latitude as Hudson Bay, but an inch of snow has us in the supermarket Canned Goods isle with wild eyes. Then again, sprinkle college students with snow and there's only one way they can act. It started snowing at about 5 pm yesterday (twilight) and there were no less than three independant snowball fights on the quad within minutes. This morning there's a snowman, though he has a dangerous list already and it doesn't look last out the month.

P.S. In University, you don't get "Snow days".

Song in my head: "Volcano" by Damien Rice