Fox In The Snow

I should have realised that the night had gone awry when, stumbling into the ladies toilets of the dead-end dive where we'd ended up that New Year's Eve, Vic pointed out a deep scratch running the entire length of my arm, querying how I'd managed to acquire such an injury without even realising.

The explanation was simple. As Morrisons' hadn't approved of my newly-dyed pink hair, sending me home from work in disgust, the entire day had been spent over-indulging in leftover Christmas brandy, and dressing up in outfits which were completely inappropriate, especially given the snow that was still tumbling in fat flakes outside the window. So, when the rest of our group had eventually assembled and night had fallen, we were already inebriated. Slipping on the treacherous icy roads in our precarious heels, we finally made our way into town. Once there, and despite the promise of excitement that glittered from the various bars and clubs, we inevitably succumbed to our usual haunt.

The countdown to New Year ticked on, but I was hardly in any state to recognise this, now lost in a trash-metal noise that screamed from the speaker system, vibrating the stage where we danced. Through a drunken haze, I noticed a beautiful girl with dark hair and a provocative smile. She'd been watching me for a while, and now edged closer until she was dancing behind me with her hands resting on my hips. Pulling me around to face her, she kissed me violently, pushing up my dress and sliding her hands up to my thighs. As the intro to Nine Inch Nail's 'Closer,' thundered out we gyrated in perfect sync as she mouthed the refrain, before dragging me round the nearby speaker stack, where I slid to the floor. I somehow cracked my head in the process, with a sickening thud that caused the world to blur and spin. Disorientated, I remember the pattern on my dress becoming a dizzying snowstorm as it was raised before my eyes, while I lay slumped and submissive; vague thoughts crossing my mind of re-defining the concept of 'stage diving'.

Later, fixing my smeared lipstick in the bathroom, Vic tumbled through the door and demanded whether I'd seen her sister, Beck, anywhere. Since Beck was nowhere to be found on the dancefloor, Vic and I began investigating the toilets, knocking on every door and demanding with drunken authority to know who was in there. At the end of the corridor, there was a locked cubicle and no answer. We peered over the top of the adjacent partition to find Vic's sister slumped forlornly against the door. Climbing over the walls in a ballgown and platforms would usually be a daunting task, but armed with an intoxicated belief of invincibility I succeeded, and clambered into the cubicle. On allowing Vic entry, we discovered Beck had inadvertently knocked herself unconscious whilst trying to focus on a swirling toilet seat, attempting to fill the unperturbed bowl with a nights worth of booze. Her consciousness began to return as Vic berated her on her behaviour.

It was nearly midnight, and, stumbling back into the assembled crowd, I was encompassed by people I knew, spiralling tirelessly as if the world might end when the clock struck twelve. And then, all around me, deafening screams and cheers resounded through the building and illicit midnight kisses were exchanged as the countdown reached its end.

Later, having been sick and then, amongst other things, clumsily kissed and groped by a boy in a tight t-shirt claiming to be a famous DJ, bleary fatigue overtook me. I found the boy and together we exited the club. The security guards, now tired of the endless parade of posturing, decadent wretches pouring through their doors, had begun to shepherd swarms of teenagers back outside into the unforgiving cold. Spilling out into the pure whiteness of the newly fallen snow, our shadowy forms skidded into packs as we huddled chattering round the remaining warmth issuing from the club.

Assaulted by the freezing air, the boy hauled me down the steps and across the road, where car tires were left shrieking across the ice in our wake. Snow span down from a reticent sky, and, where it hadn't already been turned into a dismal slush that would dissolve by morning, brilliant white gleamed under the neon lights that still illuminated the streets, though it couldn't have been earlier than 3am. We started walking, traversing the back streets where the snow had fallen heavier and deeper. As a child, I remember watching from my window while the dour town was transformed each year into a fairytale landscape. The skies would be heavy with promise as I waited restlessly for my kingdom to be unveiled, so that grudges from the previous years' snow ball fights could be ignited once again. Snow angels would be made; silhouettes left abandoned as haunting reminders of our presence; until the snow melted and they evaporated to nothing. In my reverie I mistimed my next footstep, breaking my heel on the kerb and tumbling into the snow. I shrieked and rolled onto my back, enchanted by my disorientation of the dizzy white world. I was enveloped by the snow, nestling for warmth in a bitter eiderdown. I was again the angel of my childhood in my crystalline land. Imagining unfurling my wings and flying in the snow, I taunted the boy. He looked at me in contempt and disgust. But I didn't care because I was an angel and he was just a stupid boy.

The boy bundled me up from the snow, supporting my dead weight, and, half propped, half dragged, we somehow managed to navigate the icy walk to his student halls. With the winter bite nipping my numbed skin, the alcohol overwhelmed the remainder of the un-inebriated blood pumping through my veins, and its full effect struck. I was no longer responsible for my actions, and I was merely a passenger throughout the subsequent ride. I have recollections of cascading into the boy's flat to a hushed accompaniment. I have memories of removing crippling shoes and sodden gown, before sprawling spread-eagled on his undersized bed and passing out.

I was poked awake and the boy stood over me. He looked embarrassed by my audacity and meekly asked me to make room. I grudgingly obliged and he cheerily told me of a song that reminded him of me tonight. I smiled politely and humoured him. He reached over to his lovingly catalogued vinyl collection and skimming through with well-practised and nimble fingers, he flipped the selected album to its side, and in a single move, slid the sleek black disc from its crisp translucent sheath. He placed it on the deck, lowering the needle, and as the silence crackled into a clumsy melodious piano, he lunged at me.

He was spent by the second verse. As he whispered apologies into one ear I took the opportunity to listen to the song he'd so carefully selected. The experience wasn't anything like I'd expected, and so in that moment, the words took on a greater significance. The boy was right though; it was the perfect soundtrack to my New Years Eve.

Girl in the snow, where will you go, to find someone that will do?
To tell someone all the truth before it kills you.
They listen to your crazy laugh
Before you hang a right
and disappear from sight
What do they know anyway?
You'll read it in a book
What do they know anyway?
You'll read it in a book tonight

'The Fox In The Snow' lyrics by Belle and Sebastian, text by Janie Doll, painting by David Hancock "Fox in the Snow" acrylic on canvas, 6 ft x 4, 2003.