Such was the plaintive cry rising from the corners of Britain yesterday as, in the early days of what passes for Spring in our noble Isles, snow and ice blanketed the country once again in a smug reminder that winter isn’t over until winter SAYS it’s over. and if we were getting any ideas about picnics in the daffodils and frolicking baby lambs, we better back that up and pack the daisy dukes away.
Personally I’m a massive fan of snow. It makes everything look pretty, otherworldly, and a little bit magical. it transforms even the most mundale and familiar landscapes of our daily lives into something else. It’s all a bit Narnia, minus the Tilda Swinton (more’s the pity). this is especially the case when you live up near the moors, in the middle of nowhere, but no matter how pretty and enchanting it might look, it does tend to take the country by surprise every time.
Public transport grinds to a halt, gritting shortages are hysterically babbled from local news channels, and nobody want to actually leave the house to go and play in the snow as (let’s all agree) it looks a lot nicer than it feels. – it’s a crime that snow has the audacity to look so inviting, and yet be so very, very wet.
Snow is best enjoyed from inside a warm house, with hot chocolate or Irish Coffee, a warm cat, dog, or goat (depending on your preference) curled at your feet, or even better, from inside a bed with a heated blanket. (minus the animal – people will talk)
Luckily for me, I’ve been DYING of vicious flu virus all week and have been practically housebound for four days, like a poorer version of Howard Hughes. I have been feeling dreadfully sorry for myself, shuffling around the house in a woollen wrap muttering to myself like some Dickensian character, so when it snowed this week, the plus side was that I got to lie in bed, feeling sorry for myself and occasionally sniffing in a weak and pathetic, yet endearing manner, watching the snow fall outside. (a far more magical experience, all will agree, that commuting on a wet bus or train feeling the slush slide from the shoulder of the rainproof-overcoat-wearing commuter next to you and onto your nicely absorbent woolen sweater)
So the moral of the story I suppose is that when it snows, it helps to be poorly, holed up in bed and hallucinating gently on quite a few painkillers, if you want to feel all cosy and whimsical about it. The plus side is, like the bedbound writer in Misery, I’ve actually got some decent headway on writing during my sickbed week. woo hoo! (always a silver lining)
The irony is that I’m writing a lot about ice and frozen wastelands right now. Maybe i should switch to golden sun-kissed sands and hope for a heatwave to follow.
So my advice, enjoy the snow while it lasts, stay indoors, order enough marshmallows, and if possible, curl up with a good book and steadfastly refuse to come out until you see blossom outside the windows.