Since 2018, we’ve been on a constant snow-watch. Every winter, the weather forecast teases us with “potential flurries” and “wintry showers.” It’s like a toxic relationship. “Will it snow?” we ask. “Maybe,” the sky whispers, before giving us rain. Classic.
Climate change is making it even more unpredictable. Some years, it’s just a cold, wet, grey blanket of misery. Other years, we get a sudden, explosive snowfall that shuts down the M25 and makes everyone regret their life choices.
But we keep hoping. Why? Because snow in London is a tiny holiday from reality. It’s a permission slip to be a little silly. To forget the rent, the commute, the slightly damp sandwich from Pret.
So, when will it happen again? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe next week. Maybe next decade. But when it does, I’ll be the one in the park, building a lopsided snow bear, probably wearing pyjamas under my coat. You’re invited. Just bring a plastic bag for sledging. And don’t forget to post that pigeon photo. It’s the law.
