White-out

Dear Canadians, tell me honestly: is there anything funnier than the British in half an inch of snow?

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Oh, we love it. We love it unfathomably. We love donning thick winter coats and wellingtons to waddle around outside like the Michelin man. (Be careful, chaps, it’s 1°C outside.) We love reporting our broken boilers and icy cars in doom-laden status updates. We love even more the tantalising prospect of a Snow Day, when we all agree to pack it in for the day, and skip school and work to go sledging on muddy hillsides. Just wait till we start panicking about running out of grit for the roads. That’s the red letter moment of snow days. All sorts of shivering news reporters, noses beaming in the street lights, will turn up at grit quarries to stare meaningfully down the camera. No grit, you guys. NO GRIT. Queen Victoria never had to put up with this.

It’s the drama of it. It makes our stiff upper lips all quivery.

And so, true to form, Henry and I had a tramp around in last night’s snowfall before our grocery run this morning. We were wrapped up in so many layers we kept banging into stuff. Henry was cautiously interested, but preferred it not to stick to his boots, thank you very much. These are his playground boots. They’ve got work to do.

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It’s still snowing now – though it’s probably more like sleet and has long since melted off the roads – and do you know, I’m a little bit thrilled. And I keep wondering about grit. I can’t help it. Do we even have a sledge?!

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