I sighed. Contrasting nicely with the general down-at-heel and overall griminess of the London Underground was a huge poster cheerfully advertising Canada's Whistler ski resort with the assistance of an impossibly attractive woman and man perched on a rock high up on a snowy mountain; a blameless blue sky sparkling behind them.
I did New Year at Whistler last year. This year my plan is to spend christmas somewhere snowy. I had hoped to get into the Ice Hotel for New Year, but it seems you need your parents to make a reservation for you some time before your conception if you want a New Year's eve for a cost at anything less than the price of a small French village.
And so it is that I shall be taking my erratic driving to a cottage in France, a mere hop, skip and a jump from a resort called Saint Lary Soulan. I don't know who Saint Lary is, but his name appeals.
But, in the meantime, I must spend my days on the London Underground. I wonder what the architects of the warren-like tunnels would make of the fact that in this age of air-travel and space-craft, we Brits still feel the need to cram ourselves like sardines into Victorian tin cans.
Probably with not a small amount of smugness.
Another week or so and I'll be back in the snow, terrorising snow-boarders with ski-poles that double as kebab sticks for anyone unfortunate to get in the way of my usual out-of-control weebling down the slope.
Heh.
