Snow.
 |
| Oh, please. |
Six to eight inches of snow fell in Oxford yesterday. Let me put this in perspective: there are places in my home state of Michigan which sit under several feet of snow most of the year. In Boston, temperatures can hover around freezing sometimes into early May. Snow doesn't phase me.
England, on the other hand, has closed its eyes, curled up in a little ball, and is now rocking slowly back and forth, muttering to itself.
It wasn't until this morning that I saw plows going through the streets or grit being spread on the roads. The universities are closed and bus services were suspended. Worse, Heathrow is closed. All flights leaving the country, entering the country, carrying people to and from their Christmas holidays, are cancelled. All flights meant to be leaving in the next few days will be packed to the gills with no room for the 400,000 folks who have just been misplaced.
I should be more sympathetic. This little island doesn't usually see more than a few flakes, and if you don't own many plows you can only clear the roads so fast.
On the other hand, a little part of me is saying: It's snow. I'm used to it. Why aren't you?
This may be a sign it's time for me to go home. I just hope I can.
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