I’m Dreaming of a White Corridor
by OWAIN GLYN EVANS
We all love snow. Snow is great. Every year at this time, it seems, the whole country can only talk about snow, and any other conversation is thrown out the window. Facebook statuses, television news, bus stop chat; it’s all about snow. We wait, and we wait, like hungry dogs, longing for the first white flake to drop from the sky, and when it comes we rejoice in it. It is the best thing ever. Yet, snow is not just snow. We think of snow as fun, enjoyable, entertaining, but snow, ultimately, is a weapon.
Almost two years ago, in January 2010, Britain saw an unusual amount of snow that led to fun and games all over the country. People revelled in it, and everywhere you looked you would see people having fun. My friends and I did, of course, join in. It was my first year of university and I was living in student accommodation. After an enjoyable day playing in the snow, a few of my flatmates and I decided that we wanted to go out that night. One flatmate, however, turned down the invitation which was something you just did not do. Those who are yet to attend university should heed, for this is a cautionary tale.
As my flatmate slept snugly in his bed, safe from the world, three intoxicated men crashed through the front door to the housing. All was well and we were about to part for bed when one of us remarked, without the least bit of foresight, “Let’s get Mark.” The words of a madman. We could see in his eyes the very evil of his plan; the words left his mouth as his widening eyes evidently agreed to his mind’s desire. Nothing could stop him, and with a drunken blur, he had left the building. None expected what happened next.
After a few minutes had passed, he tumbled through the front door of the flat, his arms stretched to carry the heavy burden he had brought back with him: a colossal mound of dirty, dripping snow. Somewhat possessed, he sprinted with superhuman speed up the staircase carrying the load with phenomenal vigour. Naturally, we followed. Upon regaining sight of the demented individual, we witnessed him lift the load above his head, turn his vacant eyes to us, and before we could even curl our lips to speak he threw it against the door of the man who declined the invitation. It had started.
Within half an hour, the target’s door was almost invisible for the snow that covered it so efficiently. My flatmate stood over his creation, breathless with endeavour and trembling with insanity. The snow pile stood to our necks and dotted around lay individual heaps of snow that had fallen from the grasp of the mad being during the half hour’s snowy bedlam. One of us slowly made our way to him and steadily palmed his shoulder. Startled, he turned sharply and stared back, his eyes bespoke of sudden regret and his lips quivered as if a lamentation dangled upon his lips.
“Time for bed Phil,” spoke my flatmate solemnly, “it’s over.” He turned and without speaking made for his bedroom, opened his door, walked in, and shut himself away for the night. The rest of us, forgetting the imminent consequence of the morning, did the same.
Fortunately, for us, the snow had gone by the morning, as if by magic. The pile had disappeared and the door that had once been hidden was in full view. Unfortunately, however, what remained was an inch thick deposit of filthy water, a corridor of sodden carpet and the prospect of a fine from the accommodation office.