Snow

We English do not know what to do when it snows. In the Past it happened more often - under the reign of the first Elizabeth the Thames froze to a thickness which allowed markets to take place on the ice rime. Dutch people (Lowlanders) must have taught them how to skate, who had been doing it for many years on their currentless and easily solidified canals. There was a miniature Ice Age in the early 19th century which is why paisley shawls came into fashion. Indian silkworms spitting thread to keep country ladies warm. The subcontinental sun, woven in, warning off the encroaching hail. Images of Darcy and Eliza Bennett battling off a woolly mammoth. Anne Elliott and her frowning aunt standing tall against sabre toothed tigers. But since those Industrially Revolutionising chimneys belched their blackness against the skies and all those dark satanic mills whirred into life, since Turner's rabbit outran the train to Maidenhead, we have had a temperate clime. Cucumber sandwiches and good manners don't go down well in extremes of heat or cold. They can't survive conditions too raw. So today we are huddled and complaining and none of the buses or trains work and it's back to shanks' pony and heavy carbs and fats. None of us have suitable shoes and the country has ground to a resounding halt.

Last night, nose pressed to window, a fox loped foxily across the park. The snow was virgin then and it was claiming territory. Wind around my neck, my fox. It's what you're for.