'tis the season...

Well, gosh.
At this time of the year it gets quite hot here in the Southern climes, while North of the Equator it's been known to cool down a bit.
And, with the old global warming thing starting to hit (and really, anyone who remains a denier must also be one of those whose grasp of the idea of a globular Earth is weak..) it's not unexpected that summer will mean more extremes of summery-type weather (heat, drought, humidity, storms, floods, etc) while those in the wintery areas must expect an equal and opposite outpouring of energy: cold, sleet, hail, snow, and so on.
So when it happens - as it has over Europe this year (it was America's turn last year, and every year is Russia's turn) - I get amused by people bleating.
"I can't see why they couldn't take off from Heathrow. There's only 50 centimetres of snow on the runway.."
"We've been held up here in New York by the European snows, and it's just not good enough. It's just - well, you'd think the airlines could do better."
Excuse me? When you have a weather system with a similar energy quotient as a few dozen Hiroshima-sized atomic bombs dropping a gazillion tons of snow, you also have conditions that ain't all that propitious for flying.
No use complaining. You may as well complain about the moon changing shape every day.
Heat is energy. We keep on pumping heat / energy into the atmosphere, and it's got to go somewhere. That somewhere is... the weather. People should stop bleating about the difficulties they've caused.. They need to get off their pimply white arses and do something about it. (I say "white" arses, because the damage was initiated by, and largely done by, the white, European First and New World ountries. The Third World nations are, by and large, catching up: but they're also leading the way with conservation efforts..)
And talking as though the airport management team and the airlines can actually do something to stop a multi-megaton weather system is simply asking them to play god. Can't be done.
So, either accept the shitty weather, or do something about it. Complaining won't acheive anything.
Reading: Stephen Hunter "The Master SWniper". An oldy and a goody.
Listening to: Anything but Snoopy's Fucking Christmas....
More "Paper Heroes":
It came to them that, despite not actually discussing the question, they had all made the decision to go ahead with the mission.



Five things happened on November 24th: Blunt, Crayne, and the other four Sleepers finally met with Charles, and formally told him of their decision to try and destroy the transmitter which had been causing chaos and mass death. Grey had summed it up for all of them the night before: “It’s always been the case of the politicians who foul the nest up, and it’s the soldiers who have to clean it out. These people seem to be harmless, working together in peace and harmony, and someone’s using their homes as a toilet. I cain’t say as I like ‘em much, but they do seem to be a better bet than whut’s taken over my old home.

“I don’t like the way we was brung here, but here I am, there don’t seem to be no way of going back, so we’re stuck here. And there may be some way I can help. So, I’m voting yes, we help ‘em. I don’t know as how I could sleep nights if I didn’t, anyways.”

To which John Prester and Rambo, his Calico kitten, had said “Amen.”
The second thing that happened that day was another target was hit by the transmitter: this time, it was New Zealand’s turn. A sleepy University town in the heartland was obliterated: more than 15,000 died, and some 4,500 were left gibbering wrecks.
The third thing: The train that The Equus and the Black Brigade were travelling on got to the foot of the Rockies. In just six days’ time they would reach ‘Francisco.
The fourth was the unveiling of the plan for getting the Sleepers on land: they would arrive in four days’ time, at night, near Francisco.
The fifth was a surprise. Cienwyn and Adam stated that they wanted to join the expedition to ‘Merika. Naturally, they were insane. Their embot deprogramming had given them emotions and thoughts they had not experienced before. They were out-of-control children, and they revelled in it. That evening, the only disappointed voice had been Thomas Crayne’s. “I’d just wanted to be able to say ‘Into the Valley of Death strode the six.’ Still, if they come, they stay in the rear.”

And it was agreed. Crayne left the room with Winter, his cat, to give his equipment a final check.

The next day, they were on their way.