I can’t resist fresh snow. I have to be out in it, scuff through it, touch it, crump it under foot, marvel at it. I love how it transforms London – ever so briefly – into a magical new place: dazzling, crisp, quiet. Hardly any traffic, and what there is slow moving and muffled. And how it transforms Londoners, mostly for the better, allowing us to play and revel and invent all manner of snow creatures. So last night I donned my spanking new wellies and ventured out to play.
Someone had made a half-pint snowman on top of a post.
Battersea Park was shut, because you must not play after dark. Through the gates, the scene was so tempting.
The author pretends she’s in Siberia.