London is experiencing its heaviest downfall "in eighteen years". When it snows in London, everything comes to a standstill. The buses are not running, and the trains are down. It is flurrying as I write.
Please send crackers and energy bars. We could be stuck here for a while.
If you don't hear from us for a week or so, assume we have perished in a snow drift...
Frances is popping down to the corner-shop for some semi-skimmed milk and a tin of baked beans. She may be some time.
Shoreditch, where we live, is a district of old brick warehouses and railway viaducts. In the 19th century and for much of the 20th, it was one of those urban no-go areas, populated by prostitutes and petty crooks.
In the 1990s, cheap rent attracted a generation of young artists who made this semi-derelict area fashionable. It's now the epicentre of 'cool' London, home to models and actresses, fashion students, vegan restauranteurs, jugglers, and lesbian photographers.
Somewhere in this decadent melange is Frances and me, living ordinary lives yet occasionally coming face-to-face with Shoreditch glamour and lunacy.
For example, on a wet night recently, walking home from a curryhouse, we turned a corner to see a brass band, dressed in pink, playing Boney M's Ra-ra-rasputin to a crowd of jigging youths.
This is normal for Shoreditch.
London is experiencing its heaviest downfall "in eighteen years". When it snows in London, everything comes to a standstill. The buses are not running, and the trains are down. It is flurrying as I write.
