The Snows of Yesteryear

The British weather is like a bad lover. She seduces only to disappoint. Perhaps in London we have had our summer, even though the nights are still getting longer for a few more days. Perhaps it is age, which remembers better summers through the tinted eyes that are now weary and less reliable. We live within our time and recall times past imperfectly through the prism of optimism, which distorts by showing too much. And as the night draw in with depressing inexorable ruthlessness and as winter’s cold wraps itself into our very bones shall we ask

Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!