Yes. It is snowing. I didn't think I'd see the day where, in Stoke, snow stops being snowy-raindrops (or rainy snowflakes), the stuff that melts as soon as it collides with concrete. Grey slushy pavements, ugly brown tyre marks in the road.

The day has come.

It's falling thick and fast. A chronic case of man-in-the-sky dandruff. Giant flakes. I imagine it will crunch when I step onto it. The search for virgin snow is on. We don't want nobody's footprints to lead the way! We don't want no little birdy prints, criss-crosses and lines leading into bare hedges. We don't want no ugly, salty grit! White, smooth and untouched all the way. We don't want no sloppy-seconds!

My attic window is open slightly, blowing in flakes. Who cares if it's cold? This happens once a year, and I'm making the most of it. I would go out, but I have no reason to.

(Other than 'I want to build a monster snowman; I want to make snow angels and go sledging. I want to make hundreds of snowballs and a little snowball fort and have them stacked up behind me, facing my opponent. Like in the Peanuts books. I've always wanted to do that.' None of which anyone over the age of 12 can say without feeling slightly ridiculous. Like a grown-up in a ball pit.)

I grabbed my only chance when The Boyfriend left to catch his bus home, and stood before my doorstep in Mami's blue gardening shoes. Threw my head back, stuck out my tongue and caught snowflakes in my mouth. Did a little penguin dance, flapping my arms and hopping around with unyielding knees. The Boyfriend took some sly photos, and a man walked past with a Sainsbury's shopping bag and nodded nervously.

My winter is made!

There are officially only two weird things about me.