the brilliantly leaping gazelle

One of the many great things about snow is that it helps one find one’s inner child. Admittedly, for some this search may be longer than it is for others, whilst for some it is a hopeless search. And then there are the wretched people who don’t bother to search at all, wretched on account of the fact that they experienced their own childhood as a necessary but tedious part the journey to becoming an adult.

You know, the sort of people who, when they open the curtains first thing in the morning and see a blanket of thick snow say with a sigh, “Well you know this will cause major problems for my journey into work.” Not “Great! A day off work! Fantastic! Lets get out in it!”

To have a snowball fight. Go sledging. Proper sledging, not the cricketing kind. And are wise enough not to eat the yellow snow! The sort of people who want it to keep snowing, so they can have more fun for longer. I can hear them now, laughing excitedly at sheer enjoyment of it all.

When on thinks about how comparatively easily bits of country grind to a halt – transport and utilities – and how the news would have us believe that stories of people just getting on with it are instead somehow brave, you wonder if this country ever faced a real disaster, not a media one.

The boogie must be breathing a sigh of relief, because given how some people lay the blame for everything on the decision to leave European Union, I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if Guardian readers manage by some twisted logic to blame the disruption caused by the snow on Brexit.