Snow Joke

'So what is the purpose of snow, exactly?' says Mrs Slocombe.

Me and the girls are sitting in the garden around a large brazier, done up like Nanook of the North, in our new wellies. The hens had insisted I bought them wellies so they could assist in the clearance of snow from Cluckinghen Palace every morning without getting their slippers soggy.

'Well, basically,' I said, 'the purpose of snow is to mess as many people up in their travel plans as possible.'
'I see,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'and why would it want to do that?'
'It doesn't want to do it,' I say. 'It...'
'So it's being forced by something else to do it,' interrupts Mrs Pumphrey, who just about manages to tear herself away from admiring her new neon pink boots with the yellow roses on them in order to join in the conversation.
'Some bloke, I expect,' says Mrs Miggins (blue and grey stripes with a penguin motif).
'That's typical,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I bet it's some enormous ugly troll who's in charge of all the snow. 'GET OUT THERE AND STOP THE CARS!' I bet he roars. 'AND THE TRAINS AND THE BUSES WHILST YOU'RE ABOUT IT!!'

'Yes, stop now,' I say. 'There is no troll in charge of the snow. Snow isn't a free thinking form. It just comes down and lands and gathers and clogs up the travel infrastructure.'
'Like bees,' says Miggins.
'Not like bees,' I say, sternly, because I can feel the hen brains are beginning to overheat.
'Like pelicans,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'I got held up by some pelicans once.'
'They were pelican bandits,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I think they were after your duty free.'

'Pass me the chestnuts and marshmallows,' I say. I think, I need to get something into their beaks before I get the urge to give up playing happy flockers.

Mrs Pumphrey passes me some overly long twigs on which she has artistically impaled marshmallows and chestnuts.
'And what are these extra bits?' I ask, pointing to an unidentified shape scattered amongst the marshmallows and chestnuts.
'Squid rings,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'There were some in the freezer left over from Christmas.'

'So why do people throw snow at each other?' asks Mrs Slocombe. She'd tried to join in a snowball fight in the park earlier in the day but had experienced limited success because, instead of wellies, she had chosen a pair of knee-length Doc Martens and couldn't actually move in them.

'That is a good question,' I say. 'And I'm afraid I don't know the answer because I've always thought that throwing anything at anyone is a stupid thing to do. But Andy's theory is that because snow is soft, it gives people the excuse to throw something that isn't going to hurt anyone.'
'But what if you accidentally scoop up a stone or rock in your pile of snow when you are making a snowball?' asks Mrs Pumphrey.
'Quite,' I say.
'Or dog poop,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Even more quite,' I say, but secretly think that anyone who wants to throw what amounts to a lump of hard, spiky ice at someone else for fun deserves to get a handful of dog poop.
'You could throw a tissue at someone and it wouldn't hurt them,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'And tissues are white and look a bit like a snowball when scrunched up in a ball.'
'True,' I say. 'Although I think its overall lightness might means it wouldn't get very far if you threw it.'
'So even less likely to cause damage,' says Mrs Slocombe, with the sort of triumph in her voice that suggests she has just invented something that will gain her a Nobel Prize.

'Oh my Lord!' says Mrs Miggins, suddenly leaping to her feet. 'Potatoes!'
'And you,' I say.
'No, I mean, I put some potatoes to cook in the bottom of the brazier,' says Mrs Miggins. 'About 4 hours ago.'
'I expect they'll be done then,' says Mrs Slocombe.

I don my asbestos gloves (the ones I won in a raffle at a fire station), and root about in the bottom of the brazier for potatoes. I manage to find about a dozen lumps of charcoal.

'That's them!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Are they ready?'
'Two and half hours ago, I reckon,' I say.
'Shall we go inside for hot chocolate and crumpets?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only I think I've gone off sitting in the snow with squid rings.'

'Good idea,' I say. '
'So what's the purpose of snow again?' says Mrs Slocombe as we troop into the warm.
'Hot chocolate and crumpets,' I say.