It snowed on Sunday night; bit fat fluffy flakes that stuck around on the ground. It was perfect snowball/man snow, perfect for sliding around on the sidewalk. Aussie bartender Jase and I, and our new American friend El Presidente, went to the Walkabout for cheap drinks, and discovered it had been taken over by Welsh kareoke singers, all in town for the Six Nations Rugby game.
Jase the Aussie gets giddy-excited about falling snow, understandably, but it seemed everyone on the street was ecstatic about it. We were throwing snowballs at each other, but so was everyone else – running and ducking and dodging and laughing. When we talked to people the next day, they said they saw the same thing happening all over the city – on the Royal Mile, in the Meadows. As we walked to and from the bar, people came up to chat, ask we were from, invite us to Wales. We ran around a park with someone else’s dog, made snow angels.
On Monday, we went up Calton Hill and built a snowman.
We knew in advance he was going to be a drunken snowman, and brought appropriate props. His costume, though, kept getting more elaborate.
He’s the first snowman I’ve ever seen with a belt. Also, the first snowman who drinks Tesco lager and sings ‘The Old Grey Mare’ on street corners for change.
Then, some Italian tourists wanted to pose with our drunken snowy friend. We obliged.