For the last three or four years, the annual week of snow has been greeted by a variety of predictable responses. People are dazzled by snow, it’s a ‘winter wonderland’ they cry. Why? Its just frozen rain and we hate rain and cold in this country so why would we like snow?
There are armies of deluded amateur photographers clogging up our parks as they all take the same pictures that will inevitably be placed on the BBC or the broadsheet’s websites; a robin in the snow, some snowy trees, people crashing on sleds in snow, people building snowmen, images of snow itself. It’s all just a tad dull.
When I looked out of my window this morning and saw the slush, ice and dirt that had replaced the fresh snow and then the glum expressions on the faces of commuters as they navigated their way to the tube station in still hazardous conditions, it occurred to me that while I may have initially been derided for my negativity toward snow, all the people that were enjoying it so much then looked pretty fed up with it now. Alternatively, of course, this could have been due to the fact that it was Monday morning but I am convinced that the almost post-nuclear appearance of two days old snowfall and the detritus that remains is far more depressing than a Monday morning.
Perhaps the thing that disturbs me the most is the way in which snow, like deep dry sand, makes fast and sharp movement virtually impossible. My (thankfully infrequent) nightmares often involve being chased by a pack of vicious thugs, dogs or a variety of snarling monsters. The faster I try and run, the slower my progress becomes and my enemies gain on me where their infliction of brutal violence is foiled only by my waking up. I may attempt to punch or strike my assailants with sharp or blunt objects but my arm will move slowly through the air as though I were attempting my retaliation underwater. Wes Craven perfectly captured the sense of one’s terrified progress being prevented by unstable underfoot terrain in his original Nightmare on Elm Street film. As Nancy tries to escape the clutches of Freddy she finds the stairs in her house have turned into a greenish goo that sucks on her feet and ankles and makes her an easy target for ole’ Pizza Face.
Some might say that the power of snow to make us all cautious is a good thing as it unites us all in walking in the same undignified shuffle. We may endeavour to navigate the streets without adhering to this unifying gait but invariably slip and land with sickening force on our elbows and kneecaps, brushing grey slush off our clothes, giving a chuckle of carefree abandon as though what has just occurred is a fun activity and limp away from the scene of our accident crying tears of pain. Some may say this but not me. For me, snow is the realisation of my fears. I always gained some comfort knowing that I could rely on solid ground and my vaguely agile frame to run away from nutcases, gangs of slush-ball throwing youths or the appearance on earth of any horror movie monsters or villains. Now, as long as the snow, slush and then ice, lies on our streets, I have to deal with the fact that I can no longer rely on good old-fashioned speed. I will be stranded on an urban ice rink at the mercy of the malevolent and insane moving incredibly slowly or slipping and being pounced on if I try to move quickly.
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