The Punky-Brewster & Blossom medical dictionary definition is cited as being “an individual who has more brains in his arse than his head”. The “Cuthbert Dibble & Grub Biological Almanac of medical linguistics” takes this definition one stage further, simply defining the condition as “pillock”. I too was shocked by the blunt nature of the definition in such an august and wise tome, but I can see where they are coming from and I would not wish to truckle with their judgement. In fact, I would apply this very term to myself on the odd occasion.
Once such odd occasion was last weekend, the weekend which followed on from the previous weekend. Some of you may recall my battle with snow, Sat Nav and an inept sense of direction in my quest for photography posterity, well, it is much to my shame that this weekend’s battle was no different in intent or result.
I have slowly discovered that the problem with weather is that it tends to be beyond my control. For example, the problem with snow is that it is cold, slippy and tends to cause problems on roads when excreted in large quantities. Despite its glorious photographic qualities, this particular page of the weather menu beat me and was still lingering around as I peered out of the window last Sunday. At least I think it was. I was fairly certain that a snowy paradise lay beyond my double glazed portal, it was just that I couldn’t see it as the world was engulfed, shrouded in a blanket of thick white fog that prevented vision of anything more than 10 feet in front of a chap’s eyes.
As I packed my camera, my water and my Cadburys Boost bar, locked the door and switched my car in to life, this somehow didn’t matter. I wanted to take photos and I wanted to take photos from the same destination that had avoided my lens last weekend. Call it ego, call it a case of cretinous moronism, but I just assumed that it would go away if I wished really, really, really hard. It didn’t. All the beauty of the Peak District was drowned in the same soup slew of white. Internally, my brain started to argue with itself. Logic dictated that I was feckless tool if I continued, but the eternal optimist divined that if I pressed on, I would find a gap in the clouds.
15 miles in to my journey, as I crested another hill to see absolutely nothing other than a paristic sea of white, the eternal optimist that my ego had cultivated was vanquished and I pulled the car in to stop. I accepted my status as a moron, in all its guises and turned back.
But then, 2 miles from home, on the top of the hill, mid-conversation with a nearest and dearest, the clouds momentarily parted and without thinking, the car was parked and I was out in the cold winter day before you could say “mirror, signal maneuver and avoid the 18 wheeler truck about to run you over.” I had a photo to take.