They were frozen into the antifreeze. Little blue anchors holding captive those window squeegies – making sure nobody at the gas station could use them.
It was cold. And it was dark. The wind cut through coats and tuques like a hot knife through melted butter. Every second out in it pumping gas felt like a million years. And of course, they had taken off those nifty clips (damned government regulations) that let the pump operate unattended, so everyone had to stand there holding the filler trigger while the wind sawed straight through their gloves and their souls.
The car almost hadn’t started, in fact. Thankfully it was a standard petrol VW Golf, not a diesel, because it was cold enough for diesel to gel. It was an old Golf, and it had struggled to get the thick oil turning through the engine. But it had started and eventually, after an eternity, even warmed up.
Ah, winter in Canada.