Bob Log #20: Snow in Essex

I know, a drought of updates. Here's something I wrote up about a snowstorm we had here two weeks ago:


Snow in Essex


Some of us are familiar with snow, some of us aren't. I remember meeting a girl from India when I was at Heathrow, waiting for the shuttle to take us to Essex way back on 1 October. She told me one thing she was looking forward to was seeing snow; she had never seen it before. For many on this campus I suspect that might be the case. On the weekend of 4 February, everyone got a taste of British snow.

My friend from India was overjoyed; she and many others. Snowmen were sculpted, snowballs were launched. For those who have never seen a white winter before, they got to experience the joys that those of us from the western hemisphere have experienced many times over. Indeed, for those of us quite familiar with winter, the fun of snow might have frozen over a long time ago. That is, to some degree, the case for myself.

By the time I started commuting to school by car, snow went from offering the reward of a day-off to the punishment of having to drive through it. I can remember skidding along poorly ploughed roads, wondering if I'd total my car before somehow inexplicably emerging unscathed. I can still feel the bruises from slipping on ice, hear myself swear as I continued on to lecture. At some point between being a kid and being an adult, snow went from being an unfettered love to unadulterated shit. So when we went through most of December and January with mild temperatures, I thought, 'Good. Let it last the whole damn winter.' Of course, the weather had other plans.

The sky had a weird look the afternoon of Saturday, 4 February. I knew that look well: dense looking clouds the colour of steel. Whenever the sky looked like that back home, you could count on snow coming. For some reason though I didn't put two and two together; nor did I smartly check the forecast. Instead I boarded the 62 and went to North Station. I wanted to spend the night in London.

Woops.

Two hours later, after turning away from London when I saw the tube was completely shut down, I found myself in the winter wonderland that had taken over Colchester. With no cabs available, or wanting to make themselves available, I had no choice but to brave the elements and walk from North Station, through town and back to my flat in Greenstead. Through snow, ice, and drunkards I went, ill-dressed and ill-prepared for the occasion. It seemed like the city of Colchester had been waiting since Augustus for a night like this: women in short kids laying in the streets, old bums singing Christmas carols- in February, I know- and college kids swarming through the night. It was bedlam, and I walked through it all, hoodie raised, as I returned to my humble abode.

But I never slipped. Never found myself in a bad mood. And when I woke up the day after, I looked out the window and smiled. A little while later I threw snowballs around with my Indian friends. They were kids again, and so was I. Snow in Essex made me like winter again. At least for a little while.