All my life I have yearned for snow at Christmas, and for most of my Christmases, I've opened the curtains to look out at rain, brown bare trees, bilious grey clouds and the prospect of a day watching foul British tv in an overheated house with the family getting increasingly more cranky as the blood sugar and cholesterol levels rise. I remember being 5 years old and being walked to a relative' s house - head raised to the heavens all the way searching in vain for snow and a star from the east. The scene was set for Christmas to be a time of sinking disappointment. I gave up on the star when I gave up on God but I've always kept that hope for snow.
SO....after that long preamble, I CANNOT BELIEVE that I turn my back for a few weeks and Vancouver comes up with the whitest of Christmases. I know that most people hate the cold, I know it is inconvenient but I feel cheated and couldn't be more jealous if all my Vancouver friends had won that 6 4 9 lottery thing. Envy works both ways: I have a friend in Vancouver who longs for what he imagines is my London life of Wigmore Hall concerts and evenings at the Royal Opera. I try to tell him that a couple of hours of great music have to be balanced against living in the crude, crowded, crass mayhem that is 21st century London. He would tell me that winter wonderlands wear thin when you have to shovel the driveway and scrape the car. He is right. He is a grown-up where snow is concerned. I'm a child. The love of snow is the one remaining vestige of my childhood. And so for the next few days, I intend to call on a child's strategy to deal with the annoying stream of emails from the Canadian west coast describing snowy walks in Stanley Park and attaching photos of 'Kits' Beach in the snow.' I'm going to cover my ears with my hands and sing loudly until my beloved white stuff has turned to standard-issue Vancouver rain. 'La, la, di, da'...
SO....after that long preamble, I CANNOT BELIEVE that I turn my back for a few weeks and Vancouver comes up with the whitest of Christmases. I know that most people hate the cold, I know it is inconvenient but I feel cheated and couldn't be more jealous if all my Vancouver friends had won that 6 4 9 lottery thing. Envy works both ways: I have a friend in Vancouver who longs for what he imagines is my London life of Wigmore Hall concerts and evenings at the Royal Opera. I try to tell him that a couple of hours of great music have to be balanced against living in the crude, crowded, crass mayhem that is 21st century London. He would tell me that winter wonderlands wear thin when you have to shovel the driveway and scrape the car. He is right. He is a grown-up where snow is concerned. I'm a child. The love of snow is the one remaining vestige of my childhood. And so for the next few days, I intend to call on a child's strategy to deal with the annoying stream of emails from the Canadian west coast describing snowy walks in Stanley Park and attaching photos of 'Kits' Beach in the snow.' I'm going to cover my ears with my hands and sing loudly until my beloved white stuff has turned to standard-issue Vancouver rain. 'La, la, di, da'...
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