It’s s-s-s-s-o co-co-co-cold. I’m sh-sh-shivering so much I can b-barely t-t-type. My f-f-fingers are s-s-s-so numb …
(Half an hour later)
Okay, let’s start again, now I’ve warmed up with some Earl Grey.
First of all a confession about this column’s headline: it has been plagiarized and a lawsuit is expected. Let me explain. A colleague and I had just gone back inside after scraping snow and ice from the sidewalk outside the Leader, when she said: “It’s great to escape the cold.”
“Cold? It wasn’t cold,” I snorted, all bluster while my fingers felt like they had been gripping a cactus. To which she replied: “It’s terrible being so wimpy.”
It may have been the words, or the way they were delivered, or the timing but for some reason I began giggling and thinking about my own wimpiest moments since stumbling dazed and confused into Barrhead.
So without further ado – let’s have a snivelling fanfare on a sickly trumpet, please – here is my top five list.
Oh, and be careful where you tread in Wimpville. The ground is wet, there being a lot of drips in the area.
WHEELS: When does right appear wrong? When an Englishman is driving, of course. It’s hard on one side of the brain – a bit like juggling. No wonder I’ve been dragging my heels over wheels. (Publisher’s note: You can’t tell left from right? This never came up at interview.)
ICE WALKING: How come nobody warned me about the humiliating awfulness of walking during an Albertan winter? Few things in life can be more damaging to self-esteem than shuffling along an ice-covered road or sidewalk, two inches with each nervous step, as your confidence drops around the ankles. Motorists pass and stare while your mind is filled with images of broken bones and … (Publisher’s note: Please stop, it’s way too drippy. Anyway, I’ve told you a million times ‘buy some cleats.’) Someone gave me clip-on cleats for Christmas, but the rubber strapping snapped within hours and … (Publisher’s note: Enough.)
MINUS 20! Okay, okay, okay, everyone knows horrible things happen in life, but reading about them while lolling on a Caribbean beach and experiencing them are a tad different. Is this even living? Dressed up like an astronaut with three pairs of gloves (Publisher’s note: Gloves? Buy some mitts, jeez! And move off the winter theme. It’s not that cold.) and the cold still wriggles through to your knobbly knees and bony fingers.
PHOTOGRAPHY: My camera Dennis and I don’t always see eye to eye. Is there such a thing as a lens whisperer? You know the photography equivalent of Cesar Millan? (Publisher’s note: This is beyond wimpy.)
YOUR PAPERS, PLEASE: Forms, cards, documents, papers – if you love seeing red then emigrating is sheer bliss. Red tape from the moment you land. But if like me you prefer sitting on essential forms for months on end. (Publisher’s note: This is more laziness than wimpiness. You’d best come to my office. I have a pink form for you.)
Well, that’s the end of the Wimpville tour. Of course, I wimped out of telling the most embarrassing episodes, sticking instead to patterns of behaviour, which point to ingrained wimpiness that would defy the world’s greatest therapist.
Watch your feet on the way out. It’s slippery as frozen rain.
Footnote: All the publisher’s notes are fictitious. Any resemblance with the publisher’s actual thinking is coincidental.
