high up in the hills. A road winds below us but there are no cars on it. We are all alone, the only movement is the slow turning of the wind mills above us. Gigantic shafts of metal swoop elegantly through the air, they are slow and seemingly unstoppable. They pull energy out of the air and wind it over and over between the metal meshing of cogs until it is caught and changed, pinned into battery acid and potential. Everything is white. Snow on the ground, snow in the air, white towers of metal. Snow covers the 20 hill tops I can see when I turn in a circle. Our red faces and black jackets would mark us out as ants from the air. We are building a snowman that no-one else will ever see. He has stumps for hands, a face made out of sheepshit and a huge spiky mohican. We've been working on it for so long that we've stopped talking. The snowman has taken over, he's all we can concentrate on. The panorama of hills and snow reduces in focus to this small hilltop where we pack more and more snow onto our creation. Smooth his chest, whiten his face, pack his mohican spikier and taller. More snow starts to fall and it swirls delicately around the flushed face of the man I love. We work together on our task.
We are the only people in the world.