Sunday, 24 February 2013

Snow Good.

Don’t you love waking up to freshly fallen snow? Being the first to make your mark on the virgin winter wonderland but how quickly does that euphoria turn to frustration?! It takes exactly 24 hours before the griping and grumbling about the white stuff begins. We all start bleating about how one flake of snow makes “the whole infrastructure of the country collapse”, and that “somehow the Norwegians seem to cope!” and “... Ugg Boots and snow don’t mix”. (Actually that last one was just me).

I remember when I was a kid going out one evening (in the days when kids… and dogs were allowed out on their own) and rolling a snowball around the streets until I’d amassed this enormous mound. I rolled up another one and two hours later I’d made one mother of a snowman. It was spectacular (to my 4ft nothing frame). Were it not for the fact that I’d lost sensation in my hands and feet from the cold, I could have stayed out all night playing in the snow.

But something changed between those special days and adulthood. What, once, was a source of hours of entertain (and is essentially just frozen water) becomes a hinderance and an annoyance.
As adults, we should reclaim the fun of childhood. We should start blowing spit bubbles again, have running races just because and enjoy the three or four days of white stuff that come our way once a year.

To smooth the path, David Cameron should declare snow days, bank holidays. If he can do it for a royal wedding, he can do it for the odd flurry of snow. Come on, DC. You’ve saw how happy everyone is on a long weekend. We’d grab our friends, a dust bin lid and the highest hill in the area and slide down on our butts in gay abandon. Now that’s a policy I can get behind


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