Distracted Dad
Richard Hearn finds slapstick comedy in the snow
In the recent snow, everyone seemed to lose their sense of humour, me included. Perhaps it’s normally over so quickly that the novelty doesn’t have time to wear off. Rather than leave the audience wanting more, this year the snow outstayed its welcome.
I think of it as like slapstick comedy. Watching a couple of blokes lift a grand piano upstairs – with disastrous consequences – is fine, once. After a while, the joke wears thin, especially if it’s your piano. That’s what it’s been like with the snow.
I mean sure, it looks great. The world looked like it had been leafing through a fashion magazine, picking up tips. Keep colours simple and use plenty of uplighting to banish unsightly shadows. Oh yes, I know all about style and beauty (see photo). Everything also seems weirdly still and silent. The word ‘frozen’ is apt, because even if nothing’s going on, you’re normally aware of a few blades of grass moving in the breeze. In the snow, there’s utter stillness. The spell is only broken when a passing Vauxhall slides erratically towards a post box.
However, without wanting to state the obvious, let’s state the obvious: it made it hard to get around. For me personally, it wasn’t too bad. I walk to work so the main difference was wearing hat and gloves. (A side observation: I realise I take my gloves off when talking to people in the street or in a shop, as if they either alter my hearing, or out of some misplaced Victorian etiquette.)
The snow affected my family more. With schools closed, and New Baby™ being unwell post-Christmas, the snow meant our household was going stir-crazy. Returning home, I’ve normally been greeted – long before any ‘hello, how are you?’ – by a request to make a spaceship out of Lego. And that’s just the wife. Ho hum.
“The spell is only broken when a passing Vauxhall slides erratically toward a post box”
Ironically, The Boy had been bought a little weather centre for Christmas which we positioned on the garden table. We haven’t yet worked out all the features because the whole thing’s been buried under snow. When we have all managed to get out, it’s been great. The Boy scurries around eagerly, trying to make himself slide on the ice. Even when he’s holding your hand he tries to chuck a snowball at you; that’s a real definition of friendly fire. We also made a snowman with the world’s biggest body and smallest head.
I have learnt one other tip in all this snow: asking your wife and son to stand next to each other as if you’re about to take a photo is excellent preparation for getting a snowball on target. As I’ve always said, there’s nothing wrong with slapstick comedy.
