I'm dreaming of a grey Christmas

I was born in the great snow storm of 1964, frozen in the carry cot, carried across the deep snowy wastes of the town park from the warmth of the maternity ward. Red with a nasty rubber allergy and blue as the ice, snuggled up in white fleece a veritable flag of Britishness. Cold, hungry and far too small to do anything about it. I guess that was the first of many moments of frustration. Today, Christmas Day is grey, cold and wet, what would I swap for a glorious white snow storm? nothing! absolutely nothing. I am at one with the wetness. Those first snows have made me eternally grateful for the lack of the virgin drifts and the blinding purity of its dazzling shades. I hear the Americans are nose deep in the seasonal stuff, well they can keep it, along with their foreign policies.