In that magical way of fresh snow, for a day or two even the ugliest of districts is transformed into a marshmallow wonderland. The bare trees are lined with cotton wool and a white carpet lays a gentle hush over the inner city streets.
A benign hysteria grips the neighbourhood. Within hours, everyone has scoured their homes for the sledge that has been shoved into the cellar and neglected for a year. Failing a sledge, tin trays, the tops of wheelie bins, bits of plywood; anything that can slide down an icy hill is pressed quickly into service.
Aaaand….all at once, south east London is transformed into a Dickensian tableau.
Or maybe it’s Breugel. Anyway, I’m not writing. Gone sledging.