I love living this centrally. Every suburb is the same under snow, but the River, the West End and the City will seem even more separate and distinct today. The West End will be slick and ski-jacketed, all its dull edges crisped and clean, an Alpine flush on its grey face. The River will look as though it has borrowed a Mardi Gras gown from its more glamorous Venetian sister, yet even masked and swirling and gaudy it will be innately, inexorably its stubborn English self. The city, free of commuter-drones and the pulsing blood of traffic, will be Miss Havisham the morning after the failed wedding, silently proud in its crisp Flemish lace, unravished yet by time and disappointment.
School is closed. I am going out to play. There are a hundred silent white paths on which mine could be the first crunchily invading feet.