Last night it snowed in London and when you got out on the street in the morning there it all still was, not melting, not blowing away in a powdery haze, not turned into snow coloured ice, crumping under your feet and looking fabulous.
The Star loved it.
He didn’t last year. Last year he found walking in it difficult and couldn’t understand why his hands kept getting cold. This year he jumped up and down in it, he ran through it, he shuffled through it, he rolled in it and he consented to put his gloves on after due consideration of Mama’s contention that it would keep his hands warm so he could continue scraping all the snow off the parked cars you passed.
About 45 minutes is his limit though, so it was good that you reached his Russian playgroup about then. After two hours and lunch, he was fortified enough to go and tackle the surprisingly pristine expanses of white in Hyde Park.
Hyde park is excellent for running around in circles on virgin snow and snowball fights. You won. This year.
You also found some students making a snowman in front of the Albert Memorial, so you helped. You were impressed by the serious attention to technique displayed, although they were students from the Royal College of Art so it wasn’t that surprising. Plus they were hoping to get a picture in the newspaper accompanied by a slogan protesting the upcoming raising of student fees and such. Much punning on the words ‘snow’ (‘It’s snow joke’) and ‘white’ (‘It’s not white’) was planned. Everybody keep an eye out for the weather pages of the national press tomorrow.
Sadly you couldn’t stay for the denouement as the Star was getting tired and cold again, so you tucked him up in his pushchair with a tupperware box of grapes and sauntered onwards, past a miniature snowman and an impressively tall one which topped twice your height and had a mohican stick hairstyle.
It wasn’t the end of the snow-filled fun though. The Star obligingly slept while you trotted happily round some clothes shops, waking up only when you got off the bus near your house. You took him to the river. The Star became concerned about the leaves he could see drowning in snow and spent a happy twenty minutes rescuing them.
You got home just as the ground started to feel suspiciously icy, secure in the knowledge that you and the Star were thoroughly snowed out. Given that you will wake up tomorrow to find the snow either gone, slushy, frozen, disturbingly yellow or, probably, most of the above, this means you have extracted as much joy from the situation as you can. Until your one alloted snow day next year or you move back to Moscow.
You call that a job well done.
Except that you forgot your camera.