Scrape, scrape, scrape

There was ice on my windshield this morning.

As I was busy scraping it off, I imagined the scores of curious Belgians who must have been, at that moment, standing by their windows in all the surrounding houses, gaping in awe at this fantastic device used for that purpose. So specific, so effective against such a rare natural phenomenon that ice on the windshield surely is in this part of the world.

"Where do you get this sort of thing?" asks one in wonderment.
"What kind of genius could come up with such a device?" asks another.
"I wonder if he might also have some sort of cheese-cutting implement?" ponders a third.
"For God's sake," exclaims a fourth, "he's no superman!"

And I felt proud of myself and my northern heritage and my mastery of sub-zero conditions right until I took a wrong turn on the way to work and got lost. Again.