white out

Main Street, Kilcullen.
Standing up to my nuddles in snow.
A passing burgher hails me.
"Hey Heelers don't bother going to the shops. They've sold out of bread and milk."
Briefly I flounder under the weight of implications.
"The proles!" I exclaim. "They hear the abortionists of the Meteorological service, RTE, Independent Newspapers and the Irish Times oolagowning about a purely fictional blizzard, and they all start buying five loaves of bread and ten cartons of milk. The proles! Na prolechain! Na bProils!"
The last bit in neologistic Gaelic was particularly fervent.
Na bProils indeed.
The burgher who had first hailed me, now a wiser, weaker more bemused burgher one must assume, wanders off and I am left alone.
"The worst of it is," I mutter to the biting snow laden east wind, "that these proles aren't even going to be able to use their bread and milk. The snow will be gone in a few days. All that extra bread and milk will get stale or sour before then. And the rest of us who couldn't be arsed preparing for the snow will be left with **** all to eat and drink... Ah it makes me mad... Toast, toast, my kingdom for a slice of toast. Or preferably some Welsh rarebit washed down with lashings of ginger beer."