I write this sitting in a warm room in High East Street, drinking a cup of coffee and looking out at a Dorchester entirely covered in snow.
It’s strange how these things strike you so differently, depending on your perspective.
I remember, when I was a child, greeting each snowfall with huge delight as an uncovenanted bonus which could bring only good news – at worse, entertainments with trays and sleds that were otherwise unobtainable; at best, the great excitement of a day off school.
Nowadays, by contrast, I see the snow mostly as a beautiful enemy that disrupts my diary, causes inconvenience for many of my constituents and makes the morning drive from London on Friday a scary and slow affair.
There must be something wrong with this as I hate to think of the process as one in which we all gradually become ever more like Scrooge. So I try to maintain a cheery optimism as I see the snowflakes fall. But the fact is the sight of them now makes me more inclined to curse as they fall, rather as Archbishop Ramsey once quietly did as he watched his sermon notes fall gently like confetti from the high pulpit to the floor of the cathedral.
Nevertheless, there is one great saving grace, even for those of us who have become Scrooge-like about the snow – namely, the true grit with which so many of those on whom we depend, from the road works staff who struggle in and then drive along shovelling the stuff off the carriageway to the emergency services who continue through these things with extraordinary and too often unsung resilience.