losticini

All right, where is the snow?

We were promised snow. Lots of snow. Snow like the snow that makes us all think Greenland has collided with Yorkshire and tipped its contents into our roads and cities. We are supposed to be facing up to an epic asault by the frost giants and we were told that icicles would be forming on our eyelids the second we were foolish enough to stick our heads outside our doors and put our puny English bodies in the way of some real Scandinavian weather.

So I peep cautiously out of the window just now and peer into the gloom and what do I see? The typical, well-that's-all-you're-getting-and-don't-complain-to-me-about-it pathetic molecule-thick coating of white that is clinging, grudgingly, to a few suitably flat surfaces.

This isn't snow. This is the result of a particularly underdeveloped fairy farting in an icing sugar box. The weather man promised me blizzards and arctic lock-down, feet up in front of a hot radiator with a cup of something nice and a good book. I feel cheated. We never get snowdrifts and cancelled buses and trains these days.

Damn! At this rate I'm going to have to go to work next week, and that wasn't the plan at all.

Where do I complain and to whom, please?