All the British talk about, is the weather.

There is a strange sadness in the cold rains that wash away, the snow that stayed too long. For the wind that brings them, forgets to raise the temperature. As sick as we were of the compacted ice, the transformation is unbearably slow. It doesn’t yet bring, the promise of a Spring rush. That inverse avalanche of snow-drops, still suppressed by a concrete sub-soil, trapped below iced-air and gelatinous mud. And in some solemn corner of a dull grey schoolyard, another unwelcome filling of slush, is drenching the socks in another victims' Wellingtons. The red ringed badges of unwanted memory, come back to haunt on days like these. I hear the bell that says “Play-time’s” over, and long for the hug of a cast iron radiator.....