Où sont les neiges d'antan?

Where are the snows of yesteryear?

They have been shovelled into a refrigerated container and ferried to a remote storage facility, also refrigerated, where they are kept in specially-designed “snow bins”.

How can I gain access to the storage facility?

With difficulty. As stated, it is remote.

Assuming for the moment that I have at my disposal a tremendous form of transport that could zoom me to the remotest parts of the earth in a matter of minutes, in which direction should I point it before depressing the big knob with “Go!” etched upon it?

You do not actually have such a form of transport, do you?

Well, no, but let's just say that I did.

Your direction of travel would depend upon where you are starting from.

I am in Pointy Town.

There is plenty of snow in Pointy Town. Each winter it settles on the pointiest bits of town and remains there, cold and white and frozen, until the chirruping of little birdies in the springtime. Why in heaven's name would you need access to the snow bins in the remote storage facility?

Whim.

Whim?

If whim is not a good enough reason, then let us say I have been appointed by the burghers of Pointy Town to compare our own snow with the snows of yesteryear, and to make my report accordingly.

These burghers, are they in their right minds?

That is a moot point. I know one of them suffered a bash on the bonce with a snow-shovel last winter and has not been quite the same since. He jabbers and drools and drools and jabbers, turn and turn about.

And was it this particular burgher who commissioned you to examine the snows of yesteryear?

Yes, it was.

Did you not stop to consider that any comparison you made between the snow currently enveloping Pointy Town and the snows of yesteryear would be futile?

They josh that my middle name is Futility.

So you are the go-to guy for fool's errands?

I live in a Paradise of Fools.

I thought you said you lived in Pointy Town? Are you trying to pull the wool over my eye?

Do you mean eyes?

No, eye. I am Cyclopean.

A Cyclopean janitor of snow bins?

Yes.

Ah, I read about you in The Cyclopean Janitor of Snow Bins, a bestselling blockbuster paperback by Pebblehead!

In which, I have to say, I was wholly misrepresented, so much so that I have taken legal action with a view to having the entire run of several million copies pulped.

If you succeed, what will you do with all that pulp?

I will shovel it into an unrefrigerated container and ferry it to a remote storage facility, also unrefrigerated, and keep it in specially-designed “pulp bins”.

Would that be the same remote storage facility where you keep the snows of yesteryear?

No, the one is refrigerated and the other not.

So you would need to be in two places at once to perform your janitorial duties?

No, I would employ a Cyclopean pulp bin janitor.

If I pluck out one of mine eyes, could I have the job?

There is a waiting list of applicants.

How could I shove myself to the front of that list?

With sharp elbows.

Consider them sharpened!

Welcome aboard.