When you have them. But when you don't have them, you are stuck digging your car out of the snow twice.

After first marching down the stairs through calf-deep snow drifts, I was then met with a very, very buried car. So. I did the logical thing. I rummaged through my car and found the first thing vaguely resembling an ice scraper. A custom burned CD some admirer sent me.

I scrape. And scrape. I clear my windshield and front windows and hop in my car. After mucking about, my shoes are now filled with snow. My coat is caked with snow. My fingers are close to frozen. As in, I cannot feel them and am having trouble wiggling them. (That's ok! You didn't need wiggly fingers, anyway!)

As I barrel in reverse towards the main road, I have a sudden realization: the low hanging branches over the parking area have now attacked my car and dumped another four inches of snow on my car. I can no longer see anything.

I stop. Get out. Re-scrape the car. Re-freeze all appendages.

I get back in car. And proceed to have a minor heart attack when I think I have gotten it stuck.

Do some fancy maneuvering that my father taught me for situations like this. Proceed to creep to work at a mere 40 mph. Mentally deliver a blistering tirade on the evils of snow. Momentarily wish that my flatmate or I had a boyfriend for situations like this.

Get to work. Slog through fifty-seven slush puddles. Soak my trousers. Fill my shoes with ice slush. Nearly fall on the ice.

I finally seat myself at my desk when some insightful male proclaims "What the hell happened to you?! You look like you just finished running a marathon through a tornado."


And that, is why neither of us have boyfriends.