The Powers Of Stealth

This weather rocks, but there are some hazards of walking to work in the snow.

Two miles.
Three rolling snowfights.

Three schoolkids, the tail end of a larger group having leapt at the first opportunity to take the day off, advance grinning towards me, crouching as though stealthy, snowballs being packed down in gloved hands.

"Ahhh, man! I'm never gonna see them coming."

One smirks, but their mock crouches drop lower, as if expecting me to pull some kind of snow weapon from my pocket. When they judge to be in range, they straighten up.

"Shit! It must be some some sort of camouflage!"

One of them laughed and dropped his snowball, another's went to snow dust in the air, and the other flew towards my face. An instinctive hand went to stop it, caught it on the tips of my fingers, which bent back elastically and pushed it back the way it came, skidding to snow dust at the feet of the kid who threw it.

Result! I hadn't been hit!

I scooped up some snow, and as the other kids came skidding up the road, the carnage began.

I sit directly underneath the office ceiling air-con-cum-heater, so my coat will probably dry soon.

Some other kids joined my side, but we were still hopelessly outnumbered. It was like a good-natured snowy version of Zulu.

Hatfield ain't so bad.