Partially because of the abrupt transformation from humid autumn nights to brutal, frosty mornings that make Lincoln look positively incandescent...
But mainly because I get to wear my long black mac without looking like a pervert who just got back from the park.
And, yes, as much as I detest the icy conditions and the fact that every movement is torture in my fake converse that have less grip than an OAP with acute arthritis, I love the feeling of fresh snow under the tread of my trainers.
That sound as it crunches underfoot - like a tiny firework sparking in and out of life at the human touch. God, I love that sound.
Mind you, it's only that one day I like. The first appearance of snow that renders all teenagers and children alike into mindless, crooning morons - that's it. The day after, when the entire world becomes a living homage to Total Wipeout pisses me off more than Jonathan on one of his utterly pointless rants which are more reliable than the fucking transport system, or when I see so called 'friends' who have NO concept of how to apply foundation. You know who you are.
Still, that first day, where the snow (and the innate fascination with anything new) is fresh and novel, fills me with a certain glee.
But that was Friday, and when you see me dragging myself out of my warm bed to battle the elements and arrive snotty-nosed and blue-faced for my law lecture later today, don't be surprised if my whimsical fascination with the snow has turned into white hot hatred for the cold.
Plus, the ice made my Hazel fall and cut her knee on her way back from the Vintage Fayre! You're dead to me, Winter. Cold, dead and unnecessarily stylish.
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