Let it snow (a little bit later, please)

And so, as our holiday in England comes to an end, snow begins to fall on Heathrow, and according to Heathrow's website, it will be heavy snow from 9pm.

Fortunately, we're not flying until 10pm, so we'll be away in time. Oh, sorry, mistyped that. We'll be sat in the departure hall, weeping as our flight is postponed and postponed again, and finally cancelled as it becomes clear that a modern airline cannot cope with more than a single flake of snow in the air.

I got up early this morning; my wife fell down the stairs last night which has left her bruised, although nowhere visible, so I won't be stared at as I shepherd a bruised lady through the airport. My wife was in quite a bit of pain, and so soon I was too, because I had to go through a stack of ten archive boxes full of books that I haven't looked at since I moved them to my parents' place in 2006.

It is vaguely intimidating how many books I've read, and how many have been sat there, gathering dust for the last five and a half years. As I dug deeper and deeper into the pile of boxes, I sneezed more and more, a combination of dust allergy and nostalgia is a powerful combination for hurt.

Still, I now have eight boxes of books to dispose of. Well, eight boxes for my parents to take to the charity shop when they feel like having a bit more space in the house. If I make it back this summer, I'll hopefully be strong enough psychically to cope with excavating some more of my youth and throwing it away.

As I told somebody last night, I'm uncomfortable with giving books to charity shops. Now that it's so cold in England, and since I doubt many people are going to want to read all the books I read in the last two decades, perhaps we should just burn all those books. I can't think of anything that could go wrong there...