Just taking the car out for a slide

Still snow...

...bit of an adventure this morning. I don't like driving. Best of times. This isn't the best of times. Last night some people spent ten hours trying to get home. The news says some have died. That's dedication to getting home at all costs, right there.

So. Exit horse-gate parking bay, turn right. Oh dear. Those yellow flashing lights I'd seen? Assumed they were gritters? They were something else with yellow lights. Recovery or something. No grit. Our road remains grit free. No lights, no pavements, no mains drainage. Poll tax's forgotten road, that's us. The least they could do, you'd imagine, would be to ensure we're at the top of the gritting list. “Those poor sods? They fork out so much, get so little in return, how about we make sure they can drive up and down their (unlit, unsewage-disposaled) road?”

Wheels spinning. Rubber burning smell. Time for the three-point slide. No question of driving the car. Neutral, steer as best as possible, try to get it facing the other way. All luck, no judgement. Off we go. Downhill now, past the logger's yard, and, nope, the brakes are not doing anything. Nothing at all. The car's turning, bit more, now fully sideways on, and sliding away. No control available. Steer into, out of, into-and-out-of, frantically steer anywhichway. Look for soft landing. Ah. Soft landing. Six-point turn, facing the right way again. Start the run-up to the main road.

A curate's egg, our main roads. Clearly, some gritting crews are more dedicated and focused than others. Exposed areas have had those windswept buildups, too. Lorries don't seem to register oncoming cars in their need for forward progress. Snow in my lane? I'll drive in that other one. On the right. Works in France, why not here? Comin' through!

The abandoned cars littered about seemed to feature sports models. Maybe the lack of a proper roof makes drivers extra-nervous about turning them over?

There's an appa fa'da new papa

The Guardian have launched an online application, the Pontifficator, to assist with new pope frenzy. Which isn't much evident in these parts. Apparently all the cardinals gather (much to relief of choirboys around the globe) and get locked in the Sistine Chapel until they agree on the next episode. I wonder if any of them are humming “Won't Get Fooled Again”?

Here'a comma da new pope,

Same-a as da old pope

Place your bets at sillyhat.com

One rule for them...

...it seems that it isn't okay for a wife to take her husband's driving penalty points. What do points make? Prison sentences, apparently. Obviously, it goes against the spirit and the obvious meaning of the law to even contemplate transferring penalty points to someone else. That would be like a big, rich, polluting nation 'buying' a smaller, less rich nation's right to discharge carbon dioxide and other pollutants just because they don't have the stuff to pollute with. Absolutely against the spirit, the meaning, the intentions...

...oh. They are, are they?