"Have a fight," said the guy with the camera to the man and child in the small plastic dome with fake snow on the floor, just before I started filming. It wasn't the kind of fake snow you could make balls with, if such a kind exists, but it didn't look like there was much else to do in there. The same seemed true of the reindeer paddock.
There were caribou on Church Street today, as well as the steel band, all right outside
the Cockpit, and all gone just as it actually started to snow, between shows. (They went well by the way, the shows, by which I mean I think I've finally stopped rushing. The trouble is I never know I'm rushing until I stop.)
And none of us can work out what this refers to.
The snow this evening is thick now – as you'll know if you're reading this in London – George-Bailey-come-back-to-life thick, refusing to fall from the tops of spiked fence or the branches of plane trees along Notting Hill Gate, piling up on crumpled inflatable snowmen outside people's big front doors, still falling now outside my window with the terminal velocity of confetti. Flakes got into Badphone on the walk home however, fritzing with its unlocking, so I wasn't able to take any photos. But imagine it. It looked like that.
Here instead is some freezing mist I photographed on the walk into work today on the big bridge that curves over Little Venice with the scanty streetlights and the single file pavements where I tend to finally check the time and find I'm running late.
