Every year, as dictated by our annual snow fall, my town quite literally stumbles into submission, resignedly dragging on the wellies in anticipation of an hour-long trek to the corner shop. Approximately twelve centimetres of snow later, London catches on. Pitiable faces swathed in hats, scarves and balaclavas appear, taut with anxiety, on the tea time news. Then they announce the worst: snow has hit the metropolis. We procede to be taken through an erratic slideshow of images, clearly thrown together in a moment of sheer panic, of the dusting of snow which has ransacked the capital.
I would just like to take this opportunity to show you a picture of my English teacher crawling.to.school. This picture was taken a few days after last week’s snowfall, by which time it had turned to ice making socially-acceptable walking a literal impossibility. Some 160 miles south, London was wiping its brow and muttering something about a ‘close call’ as it stepped out into the sun. And that was the last we heard of the matter.