Turn of events.

You know the weather's turning when starting your car becomes a ballet, an intricately choreographed three-way dance between the manual choke, the gas pedal and my hands and feet; if one of the three factors involved slips up even in the slightest, the entire dance will collapse and implode and leave the audience gasping and giggling.

To extend the metaphor of a ballet, the starting of my car earlier tonight somehow reminded me of Swan Lake - it all started out promisingly; the miniscule Mini started with the choke only marginally open, and happiness abounded within the confines of the pint-sized passenger car, a fact exemplified by the bantam buggy purring as a convivial kitten. However, after several seconds, the petite voiture shamelessly betrayed me, coughed up some blood, and rather dramatically died on me. I blame Tchaikovsky.

The time is now, ladies and gentlemen. Get your coats, because winter has arrived and it's staying for dinner - whether you like it or not.

Cheers