Winter in Woodstock

...

...

...

Bwah-ha-ha!

I crack myself up sometimes.


Seriously, that's more like it.


Winter in England seems to consist of a day of light to miserable pissing rain (this day usually falling on a Thursday - the maid's day off) followed by a week of glorious sunshine, high temperatures and old people walking their dogs.


Snow seems to be some mystical powder that many have heard about but none have actually seen.


The closest thing to snow that I have seen in this country is this lovely snowglobe generously donated (in the spirit of cross-Atlantic education) by the wonderful Lads & Ladies of the Library which deeply moved the heart of this maid considerably who misses the folks behind the Check-Out and Customer Service desk.

A most humble and heartfelt thanks is in order and expect a large box of hearty Scottish oat cakes coming your way.


I've heard from my oversea sources, that Alberta is suffering from the worst winter in twenty years: Slings of sleet, arrows of abnormally low temperatures and a sea of snow.

Believe me, my frozen friends:


I


Feel


Your


Pain.


... Okay, not really.

But while I'm frolicking through the bright green grass through the sun dappled hills and the golden fields, I occasionally have to pass by a flock of sheep which are the most foetid, reeking, rank animals known to man.

See? I have troubles too.

The Agony and the Ectasy

That there above is an authentic English morning frost.

With frost! Genuine frosty frost!


Okay, it all melted before 9:30 and melted all over the bench I was sitting on and all over my jacket but this is England, so I keep my expectations low. It was so sad watching the little English people dance about when they thought it was snowing. I didn't have the heart to break it to them that it was only slush falling from the sky and Did Not Count.


I ambled down to the Victoria and Albert Museum (or the V&A for those in the know) to see the Golden Age of Couture, Paris & London 1947-1957 which was horrific thanks to a 1950's educational video showing women how to achieve the "New Look" by crushing all their insides.


Where does your kidney go? Wherefore the spleen? Do all your intestines just rearrange themselves on your head in a stunning up-do?

I also stopped into the see the EXTREME CRAFT EXHIBIT which mostly involved bits of string and ripped nylons nailed to a table...


... Burnt out light bulbs nailed to the wall...


... And paint stained tables and sheets.

I have most of these same exhibits laying around somewhere at home, waiting to be cleaned up. This begs the question: If I throw my garbage in the V&A, does that make it art?


I also made a pilgrimage to Witney to buy some sock wool and check out the first church where my favourite Methodist founder preached his very first sermon.


You guessed it! John Wesley who narrowly beat out Charles Wesley (who caused a street brawl between two worldly women in Georgia) by ducking out of a duel and having to sneak out of South Carolina in disgrace after promising himself to the governor's niece, Sophia Hopkey, who he then ditched after forcing her to promise never to love another (she quickly went on to marry someone with a manlier haircut), he then refused to give her or her new husband holy communion. Cold.


Witney is also home to many comically understated house signs and the only women's lingerie/wool store in creation.


Witney also boasts the law-upholding duo with the most unfortunate surnames in the history of bad lawyer surnames: Stammers and welch.*

*For those who are a bit rusty in their 19th century Wild West gambling terminology, "to welch" is to cheat or rip someone off.


And finally, to wrap up this parade of horrors, the Chapel Barbers.

Unless the tonsure is making an unforseen come back, I think the Bronte Hair Salon is a safer bet.