willc.me

As I sat there this afternoon, gazing whimsically out the window, soul searching for a blog topic, I realised that I hadn’t written about the snow yet.

In Britain, it’s really easy to be cynical about snow. Whenever it comes, it brings the country crashing to a halt. The country could be in the midst of being invaded yet Sky News would still harp on about snow chaos.

But as I got ready to go out I couldn’t help but look out upon the falling flakes and have my inner child, who’s hidden better than Maddy McCann, to secretly wish for a white Christmas.

As I donned my jacket and gloves, I hummed White Christmas whilst preparing to go through my front door which had now magically morphed into the door of the wardrobe into Narnia. I was gonna ride a lion!

But then I walked outside. The sun had rapidly gone down. It was dark and cold and wet. The snow, which in my mind was fluffy and white was actually soggy and wet moist. I started thinking about all those annoying “it snowing” status updates on Facebook.

By the time the station loomed I was bored of having cold snow land in my eyes. I’d joined a group of commuters all slipping and struggling over the ice and snow. As I looked at the dark, huddled figures squelching through the slush my dream had turned to a nightmare. This was less Narnia, more Stalingrad.

But now as I sit here on the tube it doesn’t seem as bad as it did when I was slipping my way through it. It’s gained that mystical special beauty. And anything that deceitful deserves our love. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.