When I'm driving my son to his sensomotoric rehabilitation lesson, I skid and swerve on the snowplough forgotten streets. But the journey past the Szczytnicki Park is a feast for the eyes: the old thick fir trees, planted by Germans when they used to live here before WW2, with their heavy snow caps make it all look like Narnia, or some other fairy-tale setting.
Later, as I'm pushing my trolley around the shopping mall and searching for products to be exchanged for a gift voucher that expires today, I'm trying to picture some Christmas presents for all the kids in the family. Not to mention the adults. This year I have virtually no ideas, except for the suspension bridge for a woodem railway that my son has asked Santa Claus so expressly for. The rest is vague, which nicely matches my ignorance of my relatives' dreams and wishes. The more I dig into the shelves, the more obscure those visions become. Some shapes are slowly emerging from the alarming emptiness in my head and I wonder if that process will ever reach the speed necessary to make it before the Christmas Eve. I'm not panicking, ok?
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