I’m very much over this Siberian-style snow. This beast of a weather front has been shamelessly flouting its lily-white backside and leaving its excrement up and down the country for long enough now. And what’s more, people seem to be actively excited about it, picking it up, throwing it around and rolling around in it. No, this Russian Beast from the East can go do one.
Do my fellow countrymen not realise it’s basically just rain, but worse? Yes, it may provide a convenient covering of all the grime that lies across the land, but it isn’t that pretty. It just looks like those silhouette pictures you used to make when you were a kid with black and white wax crayons.
Personally, I like my snow where I can handle it: on a Christmas card. Not outside, where it keeps trying to trip me up and blind me and soak my socks and ruin my Uggs and wreck my commute and give me a chill.
Now, I’m a fan of a snow day as much as the next person. But since I left school and joined the real world, snow days seem to have evaporated into the ether, much like the white stuff itself. And while a weekend in my onesie explaining snow to the cat and watching endless box sets and football sounds good in theory, there’s only so much cabin cosiness I can take.
Perhaps this rant comes down to my biggest irrational fear: uncertain footing. It makes me feel physically sick when I lose my balance. You know the feeling: when your heart quickens and for a moment you’re not sure if that’s your head on the pavement or if you’re standing upright or if those are your feet travelling higher than your arse. Don’t ever talk to me about ice skating, ta. And please stop banging on about Somerset House.
It may come but once (sometimes twice) a year, but that’s more than often enough for my liking. Until next time snow, you inconvenient bastard.