Disgressed

Yesterday excitement reached fever pitch as it became clear it had begun to snow in a fairly determined manner. I had thought that Elizabeth and Sarah might be too old to care much about snow, but this was clearly not the case. Part of it was an unrealistic expectation that school might be closed.

“You see,” I explained, “Your expectations have been conditioned by watching too much of Arthur the Aardvark and things, where every time it snows the school is closed. That doesn’t happen here.”

This morning, however, it did.  No buses either, and with the roads a bit dodgy Katharine couldn’t really be expected to get over to Kingston.  Pretty much all the trains were cancelled too: but there might just be one from Hackbridge. Might.  So I more or less had to give it a go.

Outside it was deeper than I had expected, and I actually needed the Wellingtons I was wearing; in places the snow was almost over the top. There was hardly any traffic and just a few pedestrians, and it would have been rather nice and peaceful, except that almost everyone I did meet was talking VERY LOUDLY INDEED on a mobile phone, updating their nervous families on their progress step by step, managing the office while on the move, or presenting elaborate fibs.

“Nah,” said one person, “It hasn’t even been gritted where I am. I’d have to walk into Croydon. Two hours. Three hours. The cars can’t move. I’m looking at one now,” as a car trundled past at about 25 mph “It just can’t move. Can’t get started.”

I began to feel quite smug about the Wellies (green, since you ask):no-one else had reasonable boots on; many people had grossly inadequate trainers, and one man had two Sainsbury’s carrier bags on his feet. It was pretty clear that none of us was really going anywhere, and at Hackbridge the stations was almost deserted apart from a woman having a loud conversation on a mobile phone and the detached voice of the announcer telling everyone that the service was suspended.

It does seem just a little surprising that no trains and no buses whatever are even attempting to run. I still blame Arthur the Aardvark myself for distorting the nation’s expectations of what a bit of snow entitles us to. Oh well. The girls have had a snowball morning and are working on a snowman. More is on the way apparently.

-Postscript-

The burghers of Wallington do not like to see snow shovelled.  I spent about five minutes clearing a strip of the footpath outside and was admonished by passers-by.

“You know when that freezes again, it’s going to be really slippery?” (What, the bare paving stones?)

“You don’t want to do that. It’ll all come down again in half an hour and then it’ll be covered again” (Yes, but this is one of those re-usable shovels they’re making nowadays)

“You do know that if you do that and then someone slips, they can sue you?” (For heaven’s sake!)

That last one was Katharine.