London looks pristine in the snow — for about ten minutes. Then, the parade of pedestrians and barrage of buses turn it into a sloppy grey mess.
From a distance, though, when I read forecasts calling for “a heavy blanket of snow,” I get nostalgic for the undisturbed, pristine fluff. I didn’t see it often during my seven and a half years living there.
In fact, it feels as though more snow has fallen on London in the year since I left than the whole time I lived there. That makes it easy to romanticize what will be an epic and potentially dangerous commute for Londoners.
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