The Day of the Triffids

When I was in Year 10 (not so long ago that I can't remember it, thank you Goal Attack!), I had to read John Whats-his-name's work of arguable literary genius, Day of the Triffids.

Not my favourite book studied that year by any means, but was most memorable for the fact that my teacher had a delightful Scottish accent that made the murderous extra-terrestrial plants sound like frolicking leprechauns. It's the Trrrriffids, girrrls, the Trrrrrriffids! Ah, memories.

Anyway, back to my point. When I emerged from my apartment this morning, I couldn't see the steps down to the footpath. People were prodding mountains of snow with shovels, certain that they'd parked their car around there...somewhere. In snow up to my ankles, I trudged through the muck towards my bus stop. Walking through the softly-packed snow is a lot like wrestling uphill in a sand dune. Kinda fun, but a weird sensation at the same time. And you have the distinct impression that you're never actually getting anywhere.

And I wondered whether I should take another look at my calendar, because there was no one around anywhere. Because except for the murderous plants preying on blind people, Chicago really was like a scene from The Day of the Triffids. It was eerily quiet, there was no wind at all, and hardly any people on my usually-packed bus. Was I supposed to go into work today?

Last night's snow storm isn't likely to be repeated now (at least for the forecastable future), and I'm glad for it. I wondered what it would be like if all that snow was to melt en masse. It is slippery enough out there now. Any major meltdown and it will be a veritable Slip 'n' Slide out there!