Bucking Faltic

Snow wraps horizontally past the window, but it's been doing that a lot recently so I barely pay it any attention. I've had two days off work this week and been sent home early twice. There are some advantages to living in the sticks after all.
I went outside on Friday afternoon and made an experimental snowball. It packed perfectly. Hmm. I rolled the snowball a little. As it got heavier, it sank deeper and grew more quickly. Aha... In five minutes I had a ball of snow three foot high and it seemed a shame to waste it. I called for reinforcements.
"Come in the garden and help me."
"You're making a snowman."
"Of course."
"You're twenty-four."
"So?"
"You're making a snowman!"
"It's a perfectly sensible thing to do. It'll be fun."
"You're only asking because you won't be able to lift the head onto the body."
Damn. "If you help me with the snowman, I'll help you build an igloo."
My brother paused for a moment. "Deal."
The snowman turned into something of a six-foot snow hunk, but the igloo was beset with structural difficulties (I blame flimsy materials) and it sagged in a manner not unlike the Scottish parliament. It lasted a day and collapsed beautifully.
Mum has been away this weekend, so naturally me and my brother have trashed the house. Or rather, I've trashed the house. I managed to drop a glass of red wine in such a way that it bounced and sprayed wine everywhere, including my eyes, the carpet, the wall, the chair, and the ceiling.
"How the hell did you manage that?"
"Shut up. Ow. It stings."
The wine marks won't come off the wall - scrubbing removed the paint but left the wine. Mum will be convinced this is the product of some wild orgy. The worst part is I was only reading a book at the time. I lead a wild life, I do.