Snow fell and his frozen glass windows seemed to sharpen the light; a brilliant image of the street outside daring to sabotage the cultivated gloom he had concentrated so hard on maintaining. The intentionally sombre dark wood furnishing and stupid antiques of his flat seemed embarrassed (yet unrepentant) because of their own behaviour, incongruously intoxicated and merry; under the influence of outdoors. Being a writer... or rather, the process of writing could not be undertaken in surroundings that were anything less than deadly serious. This, combined with the migraine, had not improved his mood. No one else suffered like he, because of these headaches. They knew pain, not. Not! He stumbled to the kitchen on the brink of collapse and possibly, he thought, with half morbid curiosity and half fantasy, his tragic and untimely death. Barely managing to swallow the two aspirin with his Ribena, he stumbled back to his desk; grasping at his chest, picking up a Penguin from the sideboard on the way.
        The jokes under the wrapper were never funny. Although not primarily a vessel for humour, he felt that Mcvities had a responsibility to avoid such intellectual barbarism on their products. Who knows how the younger generation would develop intellectually with “nourishment” like this? Perhaps with a twisted sense of humour and completely reprehensible morals?
        Probably.
        Consciously aloof and slumped in his chair, he picked at the purposefully comical chocolate biscuit.
        The treat, although enjoyable, provided only temporary consolation. By this time it was getting dark and the snowfall had reduced to rogue flakes that fell behind the rest. Feeling bored and incomplete, he decided that a walk to the shop would alleviate his listless spirit. He shielded himself in his anorak, gloves, scarf, thick socks, ridiculous hat and waterproof boots (didn’t want to catch a cold), walked down the close and braved the evening.
        He didn’t get out much, except at night. The streets were ruined by people, and although he was glad they weren’t around he could always sense their wretched tracks. The snowfall had done nothing to conceal them, as now they were smeared on the pavement, from the cars to the front doors. Trying to ignore this, he walked on. Finally, he reached the main road; this was his favourite part of the journey. The streetlights lit his way with a uniform glow, and he amused himself by blowing out steam and booting the snow half-men from earlier in the day. These were the things he enjoyed.
    
As he approached the shop he felt a harpoon in his gut as he saw a gang of shell suited youths patrolling the newsagents. The boys looking as if they had bypassed childhood completely and fallen into an unnatural and terrifying adulthood, and the others, shrieking; just as dangerous. He knew what was coming.
        Swallowing his head into his anorak, trying to look unapproachable, he walked past them.
        “Here, mate. Gonnae jump in the shoap for me an’... ”
        He did jump into the shop, but not for the boy. He entered to the sounds of screamed threats and pre-fab swear words. Cowering behind the Müller lights, he peered through the glass in the door: they were still there, and didn’t look like they were going anywhere. There was almost certainly going to be some form of pay back.
        At first, he wasn’t scared. They were only about five and a half feet tall, each. He could defend himself from a five and a half foot boy, easily. But then there were 4 of them. That made...22 feet. He had no chance against a 22 foot tall boy. That would be... optimistic.
        He paced to the back of the shop and rifled through the biscuits and stuff. He was alone and the shopkeeper sensed his unease. He approached the counter, looking over the shopkeeper’s shoulder and through the window: still there.
        ”Two pounds fifty.”
        He fumbled the change over awkwardly and the till closed with a dull thud. He shared a moment with the shopkeeper in the silence that followed: he, squirming in a newsagent; the shopkeeper, working in a newsagent, watching some idiot squirm in a newsagent. Who could blame him for enjoying it? It was finally somebody else’s turn to be harassed by teens.
        They were still skulking outside, and it was at this point that the hum of the fridge cabinet became suddenly apparent to him. He looked at the shopkeeper, pleading for help, but no help came. He made a ridiculously animated gesture that should've been accompanied by a light bulb flashing over his head, and retreated to the magazine rack.
        This was a sorry state of affairs: buried under The Radio Times, taking cover from a group of troubled teens. The shopkeeper was finding it hard to conceal his enjoyment as he thumbed through the guide, slowly considering it, before placing it back on the shelf as if the literary content of the listings this week weren’t up to scratch. The fridge drone intensified and nauseated him, and the fluorescent bar gave the room a clinical atmosphere: a waiting room.
        Well, he’d had enough waiting. He shot a look at the shopkeeper, who suppressed his final giggle. Storming out of the shop and slamming the door behind him, the cold hit him. At first they didn’t notice he was there, but soon enough they had surrounded them.
        “Here, mate, why’d you ignore me earlier? You gettin’ wide or something? Think yur better than me or something? Aye, we’ll see. I’m gonna kick your face in pal... your lip all burst and stuff... your nose hella broke...”
        The ringleader reached into his pocket. It was now or never: he was not going to be murdered unless he got a state funeral out of it, or at least some referendum on knife crime named after him, but for that he’d need to be stabbed by someone at least tall enough to look him in the eye. The glint of a blade and a quick hand.
        He punched the boy in the face and he fell backwards. For once the boy was silent as he was muted by the cushion snow. In his hand he held a crumpled biscuit wrapper. It blew away with the breeze, but the silence remained.
        “We were only playing, mate.”
        The joke was finally funny.