I never chose to walk past the school. It just happened to be en route from my flat to the newsagent that sold the cheapest wine. If you walked past at lunchtime, the din of children was hard to avoid. Kickabouts, screaming and shouting, thudding games of tag. Not that I paid much attention on a booze run.
When the snow started, I needed milk. The newsagent was the obvious choice. My trainers were dying, and every step was a slippy nightmare. I focused on one foot after the other, arms splayed out.
The snowball that hit my shoulder nearly upended me onto an unforgiving hidden pavement.
Three children peered over a brown wire fence, each with a broken pumpkin’s grin. All had knitted hats and gloves as accessories to their school uniform, and palmed fresh snowballs.
I was an adult. The day was mine through existence alone. My options included swearing, giving them the finger, even marching to the office and demanding the headmaster take action. Instead I moulded a projectile from the frozen ground, and threw one back. It exploded against a tree with a delightful whomp.
This destruction of the social rulebook lead to stunned silence. But the trio soon understood the game. We began our war.
None of my throws had real weight behind them. I missed nine times out of ten, and got clipped by frosty bullets to my ear and nose. But this was access to a free theme park. We forgot our age gap, and hurled lumps in sheer enjoyment.
A whistle rang for the end of break, and they scattered. I brushed myself down, and headed for a milky prize, amazed at the madness of the world.
This was Friday. I played computer games all weekend. That snow kept trickling past the window. The cars outside vanished under an icy blanket.
Monday was a write off work wise. By Tuesday blackouts rolled through the street every few hours. My radio still had power, and between songs they played government advice. The news had reports of shapes at sea, but I did not understand what this meant.
By Thursday my shelves begged for bread and canned food. Perhaps some of that cheap wine. The door took four attempts to open. A bus shaped milky boulder blocked the road. I kicked something soft in a drift near a post box. The wind had fallen to a breath, but those gentle and constant flakes still fell.
It had not crossed my mind that the school would be open. But the children stood in the playground, snow up to their ankles. Their clothes were still wooly, but not wooly enough anymore. They watched me in silence, hands clasped around snowballs like murder weapons.
My chest tightened, like when you find a burst pipe and cannot work out how to stop the water pooling on your kitchen floor. I hurried on, a ghostly figure trekking across the snow.
Line: A bus shaped milky boulder blocked the road.
