For nearly sixty years I’ve listened intently to the weather forecast and have built up a vocabulary second only to my mother’s prolific and prodigious swearing repertoire. Today I have leaned a new one: Thunder snow. Ok, two words. This what arrived in London today. Should I get Virgil Tracy to get his snow-shovelling mole out of a Thunderbird 2 pod and save us all? I’d suggest a Thundercat saving us too, but all their names were unimaginative, especially Sabre-Tooth Tiger-o. Although I did like Elaine Paige in the stage show.
It will be talked of as an Arctic Blast. “Bet you look good on the dance floor” being my favourite hit of theirs.
Aside from pigeons, my other fear is thunder. I rarely pull rank at work, but my one instance is that, if it is thundering, someone stays in the office. If there is no one there I have an inanimate green frog who protects me.
My holiday hell would be chasing thunder storms across the US. If I inadvertently went on such a holiday I’d probably choose to lie (with aforementioned green frog) in the glove compartment. They tend to be quite large in American cars.
The British are ill-equipped for any Arctic blast: they only have one shovel in Yorkshire, the only snow plough in the Home Counties has been made my Matchbox and Southern Rail are saying their guards shouldn’t be allowed to deal with snow from a foreign land.
People on the continent will be laughing at us. People who voted Leave now realise the error of their ways. Tomorrow Liam Dutton will be King and Susanne Charlton his Queen.