There are days when getting outside for a walk is a struggle. Too many jobs to do, that awkward call to make, the badly scheduled appointment. And then there’s snow.
We don’t get a lot of snow in South London. The mini ice age that Dickens described is long gone. Climate change may be a factor but I’ve lived in London since the 70s and we’ve not had managed extended periods of snow in those near 40 years.
The odd blast, the inevitable disruption because it makes no sense to prepare for artic weather if you only get some on a couple of days every third year, but nothing significant.
Which is the reason why, when it comes, all those tasks, appointments and calls go straight where they deserve… to pending. My inner age has always hovered around the late teens and early twenties but add snow to the mix and my aggregate years become my mind-age (if the years are weighing heavy and the ‘it’s just a number’ mantra doesn’t cut it then do what I do: take the individual numbers that make up your birth age, add them together and that’s your mind-age; for me that’s 6+1=7).
Any seven year old worh knowing loves snow, wants to be out in it, loving the crisp air, the deadened silences and the sheer bloody marvel that the world is transformed by frozen duck-down.
The parks are oddly empty, a few hardy footballers apart, the cafes steaming and fuggy-happy and the squelchy pavements a small price to pay. Dog got to wear his woolly coat and all was right with the world…