The record-breaking winter of 1947 saw 55-days of consecutive snow in the UK and blizzard conditions to the south of England; a rare and disruptive occurrence. In amongst it all, my mother was born and, if we get any snow here in Reading, it’s on or around her birthday at the start of February. This year has been true to form and, while it settled on the last day of January, we’ve had a few flakes almost every day since (it’s now 11th February).

I love snow. I love how quietly even heavy snow can fall, coating the ground while simultaneously absorbing all other sounds. I love how it transforms the quality of the light and makes even the 1980s housing estate where I live seem like a magical place. I love the different types of snow we get, from the wet, enormous flakes which seem to melt on impact with the ground, to the icy pins which arrive on easterly winds. I love how snow can be ‘perfect’ for snowballs and creating; the crunch of boots on untrodden paths; animal footprints leading to secret lairs. I love that snowflakes are spectacularly mathematical and I still look to see if I can find two the same.

Snowflakes are intricate, beautiful and unique. Who wouldn’t want to be described as such?


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