We had snow yesterday morning! Wonderful stuff; sticky and clean and absolutely perfect for snowballing. I was up before the two little ones in my family, so I threw snowballs at their windows until they came to look. I believe they were a little perplexed; they hadn't seen snow to remember before. It would be a bit alien-seeming to have a white, cold and wet blanket spontaneously drape everything in sight. It was my first snow this winter, and even if it was gone by lunchtime, it was rather nice to smell snow in the air. It hadn't really felt like Christmas was complete until then. 
The homeless have been struggling with the cold these last few weeks; and I am becoming more and more amazed at the seemingly superhuman survival of roughsleepers in Canada during minus 30 or minus 40 degree cold snaps after seeing what a struggle it is to stay alive for a windy night of minus 1 or 2. When I tell them how cold it is in Edmonton right now, they refuse to believe it, never mind the fact that we can have any homeless people at all. They say that they must have all died off in previous winters, or given up tramping entirely.
The English also do not know, it seems, about triple-glazed windows, storm doors, or even (in my opinion) decent insulation. Thus you are unable to escape from the cold completely; it follows you wherever you go. I seem to have a draft that haunts me like a personal poltergeist from the moment I wake up until I crawl under my frigid covers that night. And so now I understand - and participate in - the national love of a good mug of tea to wrap your hands around. It is not only an addiction and a sacred social convention, it is a defensive weapon in the ever-raging war between the elements of wind, rain and sleet, and that of humanity and all that it stands for. In this sense (and in many others) a cup of tea is the symbol of culture, and the apex of civilization.
The homeless have been struggling with the cold these last few weeks; and I am becoming more and more amazed at the seemingly superhuman survival of roughsleepers in Canada during minus 30 or minus 40 degree cold snaps after seeing what a struggle it is to stay alive for a windy night of minus 1 or 2. When I tell them how cold it is in Edmonton right now, they refuse to believe it, never mind the fact that we can have any homeless people at all. They say that they must have all died off in previous winters, or given up tramping entirely. The English also do not know, it seems, about triple-glazed windows, storm doors, or even (in my opinion) decent insulation. Thus you are unable to escape from the cold completely; it follows you wherever you go. I seem to have a draft that haunts me like a personal poltergeist from the moment I wake up until I crawl under my frigid covers that night. And so now I understand - and participate in - the national love of a good mug of tea to wrap your hands around. It is not only an addiction and a sacred social convention, it is a defensive weapon in the ever-raging war between the elements of wind, rain and sleet, and that of humanity and all that it stands for. In this sense (and in many others) a cup of tea is the symbol of culture, and the apex of civilization.
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