I’m sitting in my dressing gown looking at a blanket of white, which is my garden.

Snow is a funny thing in England. The whole country comes to a standstill at the drop of a flake, as trains break down, cars get stuck (I’m pretty sure mine is stuck, but in all honesty I haven’t had the guts to go outside and try and move it) and people fall asleep in airports waiting for a plane that may never take off.

My friend was so cold last night she told me she wanted her ashes scattered in Africa and as I slithered home in the snow and had a fight with the steering wheel in an attempt to do a three point turn, I prayed it would carry on so I wouldn’t have to drive to work today for the extra hours I’d signed up to in a moment of insanity.

At 7.30 my alarm screeched and I had a knot in my stomach as I drew my blinds to have a peek. But it seems the weatherman was shining down on me, so here I am watching Jeremy kyle and thinking about all the productive things I can do now I’m not at work.

 Having swapped England for warmer climes in February, I missed the last bout of snow, which I could tell was bad because as I went to send messages home, even more people than normal were on facebook.

I also missed one of Boris Johnson’s informative statements: “There’s no doubt about it, this is the right kind of snow, it’s just the wrong kind of quantities.”

I suppose by the “wrong type” he means the watery sludge that began hitting people in the face on Wednesday morning in London.

What we really, really want is the type of snow that doesn’t ruin our plans, the type that lets us build demented snowmen and disables us from going to work, not the type that turns our faces into ice, gives us dandruff-looking hair and leaves us stranded or with a broken wrist.

Whether it’s the wrong quantity or the wrong type it’s bound to be a day of delight or a day of disaster.