It only happens a day or two in every few years, but when it does it’s always glorious. The temperature drops and out of the dreary overcast of the normal British winter sky comes the snow.
In that magical way of fresh snow, for a day or two even the ugliest of districts is transformed into a marshmallow wonderland. The bare trees are lined with cotton wool and a white carpet lays a gentle hush over the inner city streets.
A benign hysteria grips the neighbourhood. Within hours, everyone has scoured their homes for the sledge that has been shoved into the cellar and neglected for a year. Failing a sledge, tin trays, the tops of wheelie bins, bits of plywood; anything that can slide down an icy hill is pressed quickly into service.
Aaaand….all at once, south east London is transformed into a Dickensian tableau.
Or maybe it’s Breugel. Anyway, I’m not writing. Gone sledging.