The UK is gripped by another, immense, 4 inch deep, deluge of snow and a new urban myth has emerged; the ‘Phantom Gritter’.
As the local councils run out of road salt and argue amongst themselves about whose fault it is, the government purloin supplies of the precious minerals that were destined for the Germans and the general public panic and stay at home to watch day time TV.
God Help Us All.
But during the night, as the populace huddle beneath their blankets in front of their gas fires and portable convector radiators, the low growl of a large motor vehicle and a flashing emergency light tempts them to peer from behind their John Lewis curtains.
“What is it daddy?” ask nervous children, cowering behind their mothers skirts.
“That my child is what we call a ‘Gritter’,” says dad. “In the old days the Gritter lorries would spread rock salt and sand onto the roads to stop them becoming icy and dangerous.”
“Who drives the ‘Gritter’, daddy?”
“Nobody knows that, my child. The shadowy figure in the cab of the Gritter is an unsung hero. Even though there is no longer any Grit he still drives all around the town every evening.”
“Why does he drive a Gritter with no Grit daddy?”
“To give the residents hope. And because of the special Overtime Rate that will be applied to his extra hours.”
“Will you have enough hope to try and get in to work tomorrow, daddy?”
“Isn’t it time you were in bed, son?”
