The Edge of Chaos

Birmingham today, where I am enjoying a crisp, autumn morning when I should be at work because there aren't any Woolly Bear caterpillars in Britain.

Allow me to explain:

In the States (at least where I came from) the length and severity of the upcoming winter can be predicted by the size of the light brown stripe girding the middle of the woolly bear caterpillar. But Britain, bereft of woolly bears, is forced to rely on more complex and inexact methods involving holly berries and the feeding habits of birds.

This obviously isn't working for them; woolly bears would have told them that, seeing as it's the middle of November, the nights are going to start getting cold, instead of letting it come as such a shock. I can hear them now; those people in charge of the transportation infrastructure:

"Say, Clive, you don't think it might get cold this winter, do you?"

"I don't know Basil. It's been cold every winter for as long as anyone can remember, but it's best not to jump to conclusions."

There really is no other explanation for it; even if, for the sake of argument, you grace them with an awareness of temperature fluctuations among the various seasons, they clearly don't know what to do about it. Otherwise, you'd think they might be able to cope with frost. I mean; this can't be the first time they've ever seen it.

But right on schedule, November arrived, brought frost with it and the entire transportation system of Britain ground to a halt. I suppose it's because, with a paucity of truly catastrophic weather available to cause havoc, Britons have no choice but to content themselves with allowing the slightest inconvenience to cause havoc.

It's only FROST!  Has it never been cold here before?

I've been told that Britain is always teetering on the edge of chaos, and that's the best, and truest analogy I have heard. Imagine Britain as a marathon runner; not a young and robust one, perhaps, but a slightly aging yet still able to finish in the front half of the pack type of marathon runner. Now, if you meet up with this runner at, say, mile 18 and for some reason want to stop him, you don't need to tackle him or throw up formidable roadblocks in his path. You simply need, as he runs by, to nudge him, then watch as he takes three or four wobbling steps and collapses under the weight of his own momentum.

This is what happens to Britain every time it gets too hot, or too rainy or too windy, or the leaves fall off of the trees. And it's what happened this morning because of a frost. Which is why I found myself standing on a tram platform with four dozen bewildered commuters wondering where the trams disappeared to. We waited, as Brits do, with stoic determination, certain that, at some point, something would happen. Then a few people began pulling out mobile phones and making furtive calls to their offices.

I could imagine doing that; me, from the land where you have to explain yourself if you're 20 minutes late because of a blizzard, calling my office and saying, "I can't possibly be in before noon today, boss. I just looked out the window and my car is simply covered in frost." I'm not sure what they'd say, but I doubt it would be along the lines of, "That's fine; don't worry about it. I used to live in Britain, too."

What I felt like doing was pulling out my own phone and having a conversation with my imaginary partner:

"Frank, it's Bill. I'm stuck here in Birmingham. The trams aren't running, I can't get to the airport. I'm going to miss my flight to Geneva. I know! If we miss this summit, François will have the majority he needs to force his resolution through. The financial repercussions will be...I just can't think about it. It will bankrupt Britain. There will be riots in the streets, complete chaos, the government will collapse. The French will affect a financial take-over of the United Kingdom, all because of FROST! It's FROST for fuck's sake, not a blizzard; you'd think these people have never seen ice before! Maybe we should let the French have them; at least they know how to make their trains run when it's cold!"

But I didn't. I waited patiently for the delayed tram. Eventually, one did arrive, bearing so many people it looked as if they were trying out for the Guinness book. Then it departed, leaving most of us, a little colder, a little more frustrated, stranded on the platform.

It's going to be a long winter; just ask a woolly bear.
   

Uh oh!  Big stripe; it's gonna be a cold one!