It seems that every year, once Christmas is out of the way, we begin the countdown to the inevitable warning from the Met Office that Britain is about to experience 'severe weather conditions'. Regular as clockwork, we had our first warning yesterday that we were, if you believed the hype, about to be hit with the beginnings of the next ice age.
This always makes me smile, as over here in the UK, every time that we get so much as a millimeter of snow on the ground the country grinds to a halt. While it's true that every so many years we do get a major snowfall, the last being the winter of 2002 when it took me over five hours to travel the 20 miles home from where I worked at the time, these actual severe weather conditions are rarer than an honest politician.
Since then, however, we've had nothing to get worried about, but still every year we get the warnings.
When I was younger we lived in Canada where, as those of you in that part of the world will attest, it wasn't uncommon to pull open your curtains of a winter (or spring or fall for that matter) morn and be confronted with six feet of snow.
Did we panic? Not a chance. Instead we merely (or rather, my Dad merely) grabbed a shovel and dug through the drifts at the front door until we could see daylight again. As far as the roads went, snow chains were a way of life and everybody just got on with it.
Not so here in the UK, though. An inch of snow and trains are cancelled, flights postponed, and roads become vast car parks as we struggle to cope.
Anyway, as I awoke this morning, hoping to see at least a snifter of the white stuff I was already prepared for the inevitable disappointment. Still, at least it wasn't raining.
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