The photographs were taken on January 12th.
During the night we got 2 cm of wet snow, which stuck into trees, making the landscape white. I walked for two hours, and shoveled snow a little bit. This week I have got 11 hours of exercise, less than usually.
When I started walking, I thought about all the idiotic things done by the baby-carrot fingers so far. Shouldn't some kind of guardian be appointed to keep him out of trouble? How long will this narcissistic show go on, with all the stuttering, posturing and ignorance?
(Posting title is from the poem The Flâneur by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.)