After an eventful non-event-filled travel to the hospital in town, I experienced once again that where teenagers are concerned (shush, I'm only a technical teenager for another 4 months) stories lose nothing in the telling.
"Don't go - my boyfriend left at 7.30 this morning and is still stuck at the Four Wentways. [it was 9.04 when we were told this] The traffic is pretty much stationary."
...the traffic was non-existent, Four Wentways was clear and the only queuing experienced was typical of that time of morning. But there we go - a little bit of snow and suddenly a two-car queue equals a massive standstill equal to that of the A14 when a car has broken down.
Ah well. Everybody likes to make a drama out of these things. How else could we make an otherwise freak-weather incident stand out in our memories and use it as an excuse to peek out of the window and call work claiming to be ill, and then mooch around the house in a bright pink fluffy bathrobe with bunny rabbit slippers? [Clearly the image I want to have when I'm 45 and reaching mid-life crisis. Throw in some hair curlers and we're finished with the picture.]
The snow is indeed causing problems, however; my train, for example, might well leave Peterborough. It might well be on time. Whether the connecting train from Leeds will exist on a snowy day or even get as far as Lancaster is a very different story. Huzzah! I've not been to Leeds. Well, I have, but only to the theatre where I saw Lenny Henry as Othello (he was fantastic) and that was on a private hire coach which allowed us to leave regardless of the rain and wind and sheer cold.
The Boyfriend probably won't be back to Bournemouth in time for the start of the new term; the only motorway available is shut, and the country roads are dangerous. His parents are also (perhaps sensibly) unwilling to leave his sister unattended for the night, perhaps, and are reluctant to stay the night there.
In other news, my grandmother actually cheered when I walked home, and appeared out of the dark into the light emitted from the kitchen window. She looked up when I tapped the window to indicate for her to let me in, and she cheered; her face lit up, a grin etched her face and she made a gleeful noise and waved her hands similar to the action of Nick Park's plasticine masterpiece, Wallace.
But to what could I pin the blame on such a happy reaction? I thought it was cause I hadn't stayed for dinner at The Boyfriend's and she didn't feel obliged to spend 10p to ring me, or to send out a person (Grandad) to get me after a certain time? Was it that she was pleased to see me, and had had an odd parental ill-feeling that I'd been harmed during my trek in the pitch black of the night?
Was she just excited to tell me something?
Any of those? No. Not at all. She was cheering because the BBC news had just announced that Jonathan "I'm a moron" Ross was leaving the BBC, finally.
Thanks, Oma. I feel loved, welcomed and above all cherished more than that hatred that our entire family feels for that plonker with a fake speech impediment (no, seriously, it is an affectation, not a real impediment that he couldn't help).