Snow. Not real snow, not 8,000 feet up in the Rockies snow. Not six feet of dense white mush. Pathetic snow, rubbish snow. "Oh look! It's snowing... no, it's stopped now..." That kind of snow.
Nevertheless, I am expecting to have to go and rescue Mrs. H. from a railway station somewhere between here and Glasgow later. Train cancelled because the driver has a cold nose. The signallers went off to get some hot soup. The ticket inspector fancied a wee nap.
I tell you, come the revolution I'm gonna be hanging some railway managers' bodies on lampposts. The people will cheer, but the council will tell me to cut them down because they're a health and safety hazard in this bad weather.