Morning:
13°c
"The destruction," said The Today programme as I sloped into the kitchen yesterday morning, "is widespread."
Wow! Had we been visited in the night by the Luftwaffe? Had a plague of locusts descended? Or had the light swirl of snow dancing at our windows last night perhaps settled?
"Aeroplanes are grounded, the Tube is in disarray and all London buses have been suspended."
Must be the snow. German bombs and biblical terrors would surely be countered with a bit of British can-do spirit; a perfectly normal weather phenomenon brings the country to its knees.
It is not like this in St Petersburg, where I spent the winter of 2001 as a student. Even in 30 degrees of frost, you never had to wait more than five minutes for a trolleybus. Great trains thundered to Siberia undelayed. A friend has just returned from Montreal, and scoffed at the "patina of fluff" on the streets - life goes on there. Granted, Russia and Canada are used to preparing for such eventualities, but it's funny how weather that has been forecast for three days at least still comes as such a surprise. Did no one think to send out a few gritting trucks?
I listened further to hear whether my workplace had decided to shut down for the day, as I remember school doing in 1991, the last time we had snow so very deep. Perhaps Radio 4 itself would give up on the news and broadcast a Jim Naughtie vs John Humphrys snowball fight?
Sadly not, and there was nothing for it but to tuck my trousers into my boots, line up Winter by Tori Amos on my iPod and step gingerly onto the pavement.
One hundred yards away from the house, the iPod batteries ran out and I slipped onto my elbows. But it is good to get your first stumble out of the way early - and the silence proved more wonderful to behold than any atmospheric soundtrack: no cars, just the occasional peal of laughter. The stretch from my house to Finsbury Park, usually taken on the 106 bus, is utterly without visual merit. Under a blanket of snow, it is a scene from Doctor Zhivago.
The way I remember dealing with such extremities in Russia was embracing fur, perfecting a kind of flat-foot shimmy to traverse the ice, drinking copious quantities of vodka (which they happily made available on most street corners) and turning the central heating to eye-watering.
From this race I also learned the best snowball fight strategy: stage it like a pistol duel, Pushkin-style, arming yourself with a single ball and advancing on your adversary from 10 paces. No flinching.
