Whee!

Well, it wasn't Fimbulwinter, but a nice deep snow. Not the enchanted kind that gloves the world with ghosts. Nor the wind-carved sort that sweeps a knife-edged hollow round each stone. Not even really good for snowballs. But--hallelujah!--so not slush.

The Hotspurs were out in full force, going wheeee! down the library steps.  Up the hill slowly...



Down the hill fast...



... And a dignified finish on your arse.



Note the concerned citizen holding up the rope, which is right at breakneck level.  Windpipe, if you're lucky.







If this were MIT, there'd have been a crew working on that course.  They'd long since worn the snow off, and were going yatteryatteryatter OOMP! down all those stone edges into the drifts.  Not that a valiant few weren't trying to repair the slope, but they needed a design.





Wipeout City, man.









"Oh, fudge!"



Some days it's just not worth it, getting up.



I watched until my hands got too cold. Can't take pictures in gloves.

To my amazement, two quite different people called out that they liked my old green woollen coat: thriftshop, threadbare, but ankle-length. Never saw it as a fashion statement...
Nine