This morning I awoke to discover my normally brownish greyish road was now a brilliant white. The morning news reported the heavy early snow that was gripping the country. Wardrobe decisions were difficult. Four layers would suffice, I decided after much deliberation. Walking socks would be necessary, and my woolly scarf and gloves an imperative. I stood at the door for a mere 5 minutes, summoning the energy required to leave my house’s warmth, and brave the elements. I was ready, I told myself, to face winter.
So out I stepped, moving cautiously across the fresh snow. One (maybe TWO) mm of fresh, powdery snow.
Several steps later and I’d managed to cross the drive; and eventually, the road. There was my friend Eleanor, standing with an expression of sheer disappointment on her face. I sighed. She sighed. She made a dejected mumbling noise. I mumbled back. We both rolled our eyes. Without the use of any words we had successfully managed to communicate the very British idea that “This bad weather has caused us great injustice, because of our tenacity and strength of character we shall struggle on” And with that, we started our trek to school.
“It’s not really snow” I started. “You could class it as severe frost, couldn’t you?” She stared at me. “No...?” I asked. “No”, she declared. “But I mean...” “No”. We discussed the FROST further until we reached the next road. The next road, which was free of snow. Free, even, of severe frost. Free, in fact, of any sign of winter. Our feeling of injustice had been confirmed.
But we didn’t complain. We’re British.
Vicky x
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