WEATHER FORECAST: continuous snowfall, with a 60% chance of ABBA

Wednesday afternoon, the three Gods of April time-travelled to an Abba concert in 1976 but missed the last DeLorean home.

They finally clattered back through their front door thirty-six hours later, wearing their matching sparkly fuchsia platform boots, blue satin hot pants and yellow puff-sleeved shirts, covered in glitter and still shit-faced from too many shots of Aquavit.

One of them – who prided himself on never throwing caution to the wind - turned on his computer and fired up the news, wondering whether there were any updates on the tariff palaver. He had shares in Lindor balls, so with Easter coming up he figured he’d have a quick look.

He saw the headlines, clapped his hands onto his head, and collapsed back onto the sofa in horror.

“Guys!” he yelled to the two other who were busy brushing their teeth. “We messed up!”

Two bleary-eyed, tangled-haired gods appeared in the living room in their Hermes Y-fronts, their toothbrushes hanging out of the side of their mouths.

“Huh?” they mumbled. Their toothbrushes bobbed up and down.

“We forgot to switch back to 2025 and accidentally dumped two metres of snow on parts of the Alps in thirty-six hours! It’s Casey’s Court out there! Villages are cut off, people marooned.”

“Yikes,” said one of the toothbrushed gods, removing his brush and pulling a face. “Well, at least the snow reflects our glitter nicely.”

The third god plodded over to the window and peered out at the chaos far below.

“We’re going to have to send down some sunshine to melt all that,” he muttered, scratching his bum. “But not too much. My hangover feels about as big as Stockholm.”

The first god groaned and flopped back against the back of the couch, clutching his glittery head. “Next time, we’re only going to see ABBA if someone remembers the return coordinates.”

“Good plan,” the others said, nodding.

A moment passed.

“Also,” said the second god, “did you notice how Björn looked at me during Dancing Queen? I felt a connection.”

Silence. Then the first god rolled over, looked at him with bloodshot eyes, and mumbled, “You were dressed like a disco duck. So, yeah, there certainly was some sort of moment.”

Outside, the snow kept on falling. Somewhere in the Alps, a snowboard instructor named Greg was digging out his car with his helmet, singing Bob Marley’s “Stir it Up”. Meanwhile, above the clouds, three hungover, glitter-spattered immortals found Mamma Mia on Starflix, brought out their crayons and began drawing sunrays.

*****

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