Normally, he is happy to see snow.A sprinkling feels magical, like the icing sugar dusted over gingerbread houses.This is ...possibly cursed.
He unlocks the front door and steps out, almost losing a slipper in the process.It’s really, really cold outside.Once back inside, he has to shake a flurry off his clothes.
His phone pings with a notification from his group chat with Kit and Haf.
Kit:Bud are you ok?I just saw there’s snow on your end.
Christopher:Yeah, there’s a lot.
Haf:We never got snow growing up!!I’m so jel.
Haf:This is probably not helpful is it
Kit:No babe.xxx
Kit:It’s bad here too.The snow volunteers are already out shovelling and salting.
Haf:I’m still mad you wouldn’t let me join them
Kit:We are not spending Christmas in A&E.
Christopher:Are you two just sitting next to each other texting me?
Kit:No
Haf:Obvs
He sends them a few pictures of the view outside.
Kit:Shit.
Haf:There’s no way the trains are running.They barely run at the best of times so
Haf:I’m doing it again aren’t I
K:Yes
His train ticket app shows a similarly red vibe.When he checks his route, all the trains have a totally-not-alarming question mark next to them.Theymustbe running later on.This can’t be that bad, he thinks.It’s just a bit of snow!
As the websites are a sea of unhelpful panic, he decides to walk down to the train station just down the road by the sea.His train isn’t for ages, but because Pen-y-Môr is a request stop, you have to either tell the guard you want to get off or furiously wave one down like you’re inThe Railway Children, so usually there’s someone around.
Walking boots laced and warmest coat on, Christopher steps outside.Or rather, he pushes himself outside.Since he last went out, the door is now wedged firmly with snow, andit takes a good few shoves to get it open enough for him to squeeze out.
The snow is thigh-deep on him, which for a six-foot-tall man is a bad sign.He winces as the cold seeps through his jeans.
The weather is so bad, it takes him the best part of twenty minutes to wade down the high street to the train station.The red-brick station building is open but inside he finds the ticket booth closed.
‘Hello?’Christopher calls.
‘Over here,’ calls a thick, sing-song Southern Welsh voice, which he follows out onto the sea-facing platform.It looks angry out there.Grey, and white-tipped.
The railway tracks are covered in just as much snow as the roads.A station guard stands, hands on hips, surveying the mess.
‘Bore da,’ Christopher says in nervous Welsh.He’s been learning on his own.He’d ask Shaz to practise, but she is somehow worse than he is.
‘Morning fella.’
‘Is the 11:23 to Manchester still running?’
