Let it snow

In the few days leading up to Christmas, I revert to my native Frenchness. I dream of goose, take much delight in mentioning foie gras to sensitive, battery-chicken eating Brits, and ponder where  to buy duck confit and marrons glacés (Relish is handy but a little dear).

So it was with a "bof" and a shrug that I greeted this scene yesterday:

Pfff, ouais.

Mmm, bof, whatever.

I can't quite muster the energy to get annoyed about Winter's underhanded ways and frankly po-faced use of snow. Besides, I have these:

Dans ton cul, Hiver.