For quite a while I’ve not really had much cause to come home late at night when the air is full of frost and everything has a silver shimmer to it.

But tonight, after a fun evening of locking people up and watching them wrap their brain around a series of carefully crafted puzzles, and with Carole bed-ridden with whatever disease it is she’s got that causes her to produce more than her own body weight in phlegm, I was left to the devices of the peasant wagon.

Now, as it happens it all worked out swimming, with it actually turning up and everything. I should point out that Arriva was not involved in this particular bus journey which is possibly why it went as well as it did.  But it’s cold out there. And frosty. And all sparkly wonderment.

As I walked into the street this evening, my breath like little clouds in the air in front of me, I started to have an almost insatiable urge to draw rude things in the frost on people’s cars. I do have previous form in this area, as when I used to travel to Leeds on the bus at stupid o’clock in the morning I would often revert to that old staple of the comedy graffiti and etch a cock and balls into the frost on the bus shelter. And then snigger all the way to work.

Which, in a way, is proof if proof were needed that work was sending me round the bend.

But then tonight it was like I was being presented with a street full of blank canvases. Canvi. Whatever the plural of canvas is. Each car I passed had a beautiful white area just begging for a warm finger and some artistic flair. Our own car, having not been driven today, holds even whiter, crisper, cleaner frost on which I could create a masterpiece. The only one that doesn’t offer the harmless prank of meltable street art is the car that has been under a sheet for the past month, seemingly put to bed by a loving owner who couldn’t quite find a sheet big enough to let him cover the back of the car as well.

As it was, though, I resisted the temptation. Even now, as I type this, I kind of regret my decision. I feel like popping some shoes on, throwing my coat back on and heading out to draw some boobs on a windscreen, or a Kilroy face on a window as though he’s peeping out of the car.

Like a wintery Banksy.