Inside every sixty year old there's a sixteen year old wondering what the fuck happened...

And I'm there, baby...

It's another hellish winter at Falling Downs. As usual, there was no hint whatsoever that winter was coming. One day in December it's warm and there's still green shit standing proud in our ten by ten garden; next day our ten by ten garden is under two feet of snow.

WTF?

Then begins the soul-searching and the recriminations re: the snow-removal technology. Fuck me, it took three days just to find the snow shovel. It's under the fucking snow.

I was lucky to find it at all.

But that's the least of my worries.

Here at Falling Downs we have a short driveway by country standards but a long driveway by city standards, which is a nice way of saying there's no fucking way I'm doing that driveway with a shovel.

Long story short, I sprung for a new snow-blower this year. That other piece of shit has been such a pain in the ass that I'm just totally fed up with three hours of belt adjustments for every twenty minutes of snow-blowing.

Then there's the rig that hooks up to the tractor. The problem with that is it's massive snowblower overkill. You should NEVER be using a diesel tractor for a five minute job of any kind. That just destroys the life expectancy of the diesel.

If I was sixteen years old, I suppose I'd just shovel out the drive.

At sixty, that's just asking for a medical emergency...