It was only around the evening when the realization came, in muddied boots and boisterous company. Paris heard the voices of three, maybe four people all climbing atop each other to call out to the bartender - ho there, or a round for everyone, please, or I really am sorry about all this, - but their eyes were already at the door, where they'd shrugged off their damp coats and damper trails. Of course they'd be working late on the day of the first snow; it was their luck, after all. Already, they could see the makings of a spill, the tallest of the bunch bumping about like the world's shittiest pinball. Paris wondered if their giddiness might be infectious, but shunted the thought aside. That's not very good phrasing, is it. With mood appropriately soured, they set off for the supply closet where they kept their stash of old magazines. It wasn't much, but anything’s better than Raw Impact Footprints Of Death in their entryway; at least until they can order in the truly pungent stuff