Frosty, the bastard.

So this is the thanks I get.

Since Sunday, I've been waxing lyrical about the joys of the cold snap, watching the snow with the wide-eyed excitement of a 6 year old on Christmas morning. I even posted comments on the BBC website berating grumpier contributers for focusing on the boring aspects of unusually wintry weather - transport chaos, closed schools and the like - rather than just bloody enjoying a day off work with nothing more pressing to do than go outside and get numb fingers frolicking in the white loveliness.

I first suspected that my love was unrequited on Monday evening, as it became clear that the ungrateful weather type wasn't going to hang around, or at least not invite any more of its mates, meaning a return to work the following day was on the cards. This, I could just about handle. After all, you either love London or you hate it, and many before have taken the decision to relocate up north after a comparatively short time in the capital.

But, like a dodgy council tenant, Snow wasn't content just to cut his losses and move on. Oh no, he was straight on the phone to his Asbo wielding cousin, "Ice", no doubt just out of prison for attacking defenseless hobos in their sleep. "Alright Ice mate? How's tricks? You looking for somewhere to stay for a bit? Thought so. Listen, I'm down in London but buggering off to Yorkshire tomorrow - got a nice wee place down here if you fancy taking it over?"

I've lived in Brixton for long enough to know a wrong 'un when I see it and avoid interaction as much as possible, so the past two days I've been keeping myself to myself, picking my way carefully along the streets whilst all too aware that Ice had its beady, glistening eyes on me at every corner.

Unfortunately, in this world, it is not always your fault when trouble finds you.

I was walking to the tube this morning, minding my own business, trying to affect the confident and purposeful stride I hope to convey at such times whilst at the same time being sure to tread carefully on patches of the white stuff on the ground. Just as I reached the crossing in front of the underground, the lights turned to red. With the deft skill of a wily pro, I decided to cut through the static traffic, thus shaving a precious 10 seconds off my journey time. The footpath was clear of all but slush, and my guard was down.

Next thing I knew, I was suspended horizontally in mid air.

It's funny how long that split second seems to last, or rather how much thought you manage to get through whilst it's happening. "I'm parallel to the footpath. Bugger, I've slipped. How the hell did that happen? I'm sure there was no ice there. This is going to be embarrassing. And it's probably going to bloody hurt. Maybe I should just stay down when I land. No, but it's all wet and people will be staring at you. Best to just jump up then as if nothing's happened and be on your way. Nice one. OOOFFF, F@$#!!!!"

"Are you ok?" asked a girl.
"Heh heh, yeah, fine thanks", I replied, in my best nonchalant, gruff, 'happens to me all the time, hard as nails me', voice.

As I was saying this, I registered the sharp, burning pain in my arm and was momentarily unsure of what to do. Run? Cry? Have a little sit down next to the Big Issue man? I then became all too aware of the faces staring at me, and the fact I was covered in shit from head to toe. So I did what every British gentleman would do - tutted loudly as I tried to brush the slush of my jacket with my good arm, whilst simultaneously scuttling towards the tube.

As I got inside, my arm got more painful, and I started to think it must be broken. I've never experienced a huge amount of real pain in my life, so like every other bloke I instantly imagine whatever's wrong with me to be the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone. Obviously people need to take painkillers all the time for stuff, but I'm probably just a lot more stoic and masculine than them. Don't like to complain.

But if it was broken?! Well, provided I got to work without fainting from the pain, I would be a hero! I'd be packed off to the nearest A&E, leaving a trail of concerned yet impressed colleagues gossiping amongst each other about my amazing courage at coming the whole way to the office. And, having never broken a bone before, it actually wasn't as horrific as I'd imagined it might be. Plus it would get me out of hosting that 10am meeting I wasn't looking forward to. Yep, apart from the fact I looked like a homeless man and was whimpering slightly, this was a starting to look pretty positive. Even the humiliation of my public acrobatics paled into insignificance. People always want to know the outcome of nasty accidents. The South London Press would want to do an article from my hospital bed. I might get fan mail. Up and down the A23, people would be claiming "I was there when it happened, you know".

Roughly around the time we reached Elephant and Castle, I realised that I was holding the paper with my bad arm, and concluded that unfortunately it probably wasn't broken - well, unless I was even more hard than I had given myself credit for. Upon arriving at work, I prepared myself for the worst when I took my coat off, and was somewhat disappointed not to see the remnants of a perfectly adequate elbow sticking through my shirt. I did manage to graze it slightly, which only served to irritate me as I was wearing one of my new Marks & Spencer shirts that now has blood on the sleeve.

As the day progressed, I was encouraged to notice that as my arm improved my side got more painful, probably as a result of me landing squarely on it when I fell. It's probably a strained muscle, but I do have the faint hope that it might be a broken rib or something. It certainly hurts when I move and as we speak has started a weird burning sensation.

So here I sit, battered and bruised, my love affair with winter weather well and truly over. Roll on the summer, when all I've got to worry about are mosquitoes. Thanks Ice. You bastard.