I walk home for lunch most days. With the onset of winter, the hill is slick with ice or slush, and I skid and baby step home, praying to the gods of winter sidewalks that I don't land on my tailbone.
I live in an old building that's been subdivided into four apartments. It must have been built before the idea of insulation really caught on - I'm quite sure there is none. All the heat in my apartment warms the floors of my neighbors upstairs, and all the heat in their apartment goes straight up to our "quaint" and "historic" slate roof.
On Friday afternoon, my apartment building bucked and shuddered, windows rattled, I heard a roaring noise - the whole nine yards. I really thought we'd had an earthquake. Realizing what had actually happened, I wondered if I would have to shovel my neighbor's or mail carrier's body out from under the snow. Brained by a heap of ice. The rattle and roar was an avalanche of white sliding from the warming roof of our building to the path and driveway three floors below. At random intervals, scraps of leftover ice continued to fall and smash on the ground.
I decided to ignore my overactive imagination and head back up the hill. I couldn't very well call in sick for the remainder of the day because I was afraid of being killed on the way out the door. I stepped out, looked up at a looming chunk of ice at the peak of the roofline (2 seconds) and ran like hell for the sidewalk (7 seconds).
I love lunching in my quiet apartment with a good book, so I'll continue the practice. Should you never see another post from me again it may mean i'm in jail on suspicion of obstructing the federal mail service, or I've been squashed.