Snowpocalypse 2012 is upon the citizens of London, who are not prepared for snow in any way. Public transport grinds to a halt. Nobody goes to work. We’re at home, preparing our bodies for The White Age. This morning, I watched one of the cats pad through the snow confused, as its paw first rested on the frozen surface and then broke through it, sinking to the floor underneath it. It looked terrified. That’s what London is like in the snow.
So these are pictures from the back garden at half past midnight last night. That’s the “real” colour of the sky, sort of: if I corrected for the proper white balance, it comes out all lovely and Christmas Card white, but the white of the snow offsets the light-pollution purple of the night sky over the city. Your brain turns it into a burnt yellow.
I had grand plans to go down to maybe Abney Park this morning at first light, get some good pictures of the third White Age in action. But then I remembered about the public transport, which surely must be operating on a barter system by now. Three otter skins for a return ticket is just too steep a price to be abused by youths on a London bus.
It might have been a hallucination, but I swear I watched a Routemaster being pulled down my street by a fleet of huskies.