Walking out of the house this morning, I was confronted with a blanket of snow over Ealing.
I liken the snow to giving birth.* If you stopped and actually thought about it, sure, it would hurt. Below freezing is not normal and for an Aussie experiencing their first English winter, hyperthermia is usually just round the corner. But being in the moment, experiencing flow, all you notice is the beauty and the magic. I was in the moment. The crunch of the fluffy white snow under the feet is as addictive as popping bubble wrap.
I should mention here that this is my first experience of snow, of waking up to blankets of white, of beanies, mittens and scarves, of grit and salt. Ok, not technically true as my mum recently reminded me that we did have snow in Shanghai where I was born. But seriously, like anyone remembers being three. So my 'real' memories and notions of snow are derived from Narnia - romantic images of thick snow, thick coats, Turkish delight and fawns. Yes, I'm high on snow.
I've been told that the novelty will wear off. Maybe when I stack it for the first time in public and rock up to work with a wet bum. Until then, I will happily be Lorelai Gilmore pre-season 5. If there's still a lot of snow in the backyard tonight, I shall make a mini snowman and hide him in the freezer for my housemates.
* The fact that I have never experienced childbirth clearly isn't the point and won't prevent me from making this analogy.