Matchless. Woe be gone.
“So? It’s winter.”
Not budging. Nope.
“Certainly an understatement to say it’s cold, but we’ve seen worse. Now come along. Can’t put it off any longer.”
The bone chilling snow. Hazardous. No match for such as us. Don’t you remember? I read it recently.
“The little girl walked on her naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. …”
“Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes fell on her long fair hair, which hung in pretty curls over her neck. In all the windows lights were shining….”
(Jean Hersholt translation from “Den lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne”)
A tale of woe and whoa.
“Oh, Come on. Enough drama. It’s not that bad.”
Easy for you to say with the warm boots, insulated gloves, and that (sneer) fuzzy coat
“I heard that. You are the last one to say anything about fur coats. Now stop being silly. You used to romp and stomp in worse than this. Refused to come inside.”
Sigh. One gains wisdom with age.
“Sorry. No sympathy. Just get it over with.”
Well, If we must, we must. Although considerate Persons would accept alternatives in such weather.
Might as well take the ball, too. As long as we are going out, we shall attempt little came of catch? Exercise gets the blood stirring. Keeps you warm. I’ll even carry it out, OK?
Come now. Step lively. Your idea after all.
A little match, girl?
Throw the ball. Throw the ball. Throw the ball.
Matchless fun. Cool.
Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge
Catch up with the German’s life in a high-rise: “Over here. I know a place. (German’s nose)“