It is the second of January. And with this comes cold and, more arse fingeringly annoying, snow. I’m dreaming of a White Christmas. No.
This is a nightmare. It’s good to look at, yeah. But when you really want to get somewhere, the snow comes along and makes your bus ten minutes late. Then you panic and you wonder when is good to give up waiting. Heart races. Sweat drips. Breath pulsates.
And then, appearing from that corner of Lidl that leads to Wetherspoons, peers the Swift, the 45, the bus home. This is an ode to Go North East. Even in the shittest weather, in the town on the hills, this little bus slides on. Through all the lain snow and the freezing slush, on the little bugger chugs.
God loves the little engine that could.