This post was originally published on my City Sampler blog.
A London Story
It had been a freakishly cold winter, but it never snows in London – or so they say.
On Christmas morning 1975 my mother stood bare-foot and pyjama-clad in her tiny kitchenette and boiled the kettle for tea. Groggy with sleep, she glanced up and saw tiny white petals falling past her window.
Delighted, she shrieked loud enough to rouse the other occupants, belted down the stairs and out into the slowly whitening garden. Dizzy with excitement, and without shoes, gloves or proper clothes, she frolicked like a new-born puppy. She made a snow ball, drew a snow angel, and cackled maniacally with joy whilst the British neighbours peered out from behind their curtains in wonder and confusion.
Finally spent, the aching frost of my mother’s extremities roused her back to reality, and she realised it would probably be best if she returned inside and put on some more suitable clothes before attempting any further snow games.
She was 27 years old.