Christmas in February

Contributed by Bridgeen Gillespie on 09/03/10

I woke at 6 in the morning, for nothing serious, just a toilet trip. But the stillness was palpable, and there was more light coming though my curtains than I would have expected for this time of year. I needed to get back to sleep, only one hour left to get as much shut eye as possible before it was time to get up for another busy work day, even so I felt compelled to look out the window. Peeking out behind the curtains, from my fourth floor flat I could see that it was snowing, big fluffy drops, almost falling upwards in their weightlessness. For a moment I was in a snow globe. The blue light reflecting on the fallen snow contrasted with the orange street lamps, the artificial lighting making outdoors look indoors, still and silent like a studio set. The early morning half light and the unexpected snow still playing tricks on me after all these years. I felt a little excited, like a child a Christmas, (if Christmas were in February). Snow somehow has the ability to make everything seem new again, and I was newly single with a brand new year of the unexpected opening up in front of me. I couldn’t resist the urge to take a photograph before climbing back into bed.

Two hours later I’m washed and dressed, wrapped up against the cold. I almost don’t know what to wear, it seems so unusual for it to snow these days. So I’m all boots and thick tights and hats and scarves and the like. This is kind of fun. I remember to pack my camera. Who knows when this might happen again?

I photograph snow laden trees and a crow, stark black against white ground. Blackheath is beautiful, and treacherous. The heath is carpeted white as far as I can see, and the footpaths are obscured by snow. It’s a little tricky. I want to rush but I can’t. The pavement is an ice-rink and I will have to slide – walk down Lewisham hill in a vain attempt not to land on my face. Or arse. Older kids have been busy despite the early hour. I pass a fully formed snowman on the heath, and there are school children at bus stops pegging snowballs at passers by. Everything goes on as normal here, snow does not stop London.

“The wrong kind of snow on the tracks”… I think that was the announcement. Lewisham train station had ground to a halt. Now the queues for the bus were impossible. Commuters, manic and driven, willing to sell their own mothers for the opportunity to stand face to armpit for 40mins to an hour just to get anywhere close to the centre of town. It’s times like these that I was glad that my boss had reasonable sense of a work/life ratio. I phoned the office and was advised not to rush in, they wouldn’t need me till the afternoon.