Spring Has Sprung

(The snow is a distant memory… Here’s my edit of my article published in Taxi magazine this week.  I’ve now put my ice scraper and windscreen frost sheet away for the year…)

The snow is now a distant memory. I’m confident that by the time you read this we can see sunshine and the green shoots of spring. It wasn’t like that at the beginning of the month.

I usually have Monday and Tuesday off. On Monday February 26th I was watching the BBC News. The talk was of the “Beast from the East”, the killer weather on its way from Siberia. There were dire warnings of serious travel disruption, and sub-zero temperatures that were going to cause folk to drop dead from heart attacks. Some parts of the UK were already suffering from The Beast, and it looked like we were all going to get it sometime over the next few days.

BBC reporters stood on motorway bridges and told of mayhem up north, down south, Wales and the west. Train companies had cancelled trains in areas where not a single snowflake had dropped. This both appalled and amused me. I certainly would have been annoyed had I needed to catch a train today. Anyway, how were they coping in Siberia where this weather was meant to originate from? Do the trains stop running in Iceland and Canada every winter?

The media love talking about extreme weather. I later joined in with the jovial humour by posting slightly smug messages on my blog. The sunshine was streaming through my windows as I spoke about how lovely and spring-like the weather was in Leighton Buzzard (I’d already got my sunglasses out, ready to put in the cab, and I was thinking about bringing my ice scraper inside for the next nine months).

I asked my twelve or so blog followers why this country grinds to a halt at the first drop of a snowflake. I spoke about the woman I saw leaving the gym that morning. She had a hat on and she was only walking to the car park a few yards away. Yes, it was cold, but I wore my shorts at Morrison’s as I always do when I’ve come straight from the gym. I later caught a bus into the town centre. They were talking about grim weather coming in the Golden Bell. The bus drivers were talking excitedly about the day off they were going to enjoy the following day when the Beast hit Bedfordshire. Dream on, I thought.

Tuesday was the same: cold but sunny.

I woke up as normal on Wednesday and prepared for work. I looked out of the window and there was a blanket of white. Oh dear. There were four inches of snow on the cab roof, and it was still snowing lightly. Even the cat refused to go out for a look.

I was now faced with the dilemma of trying to make it to London and hope things were all right there, or write the day off. It’s a terrible dilemma when you’re self-employed as if you don’t work you don’t get paid. I thought of those delivery people on zero-hours contracts who were facing the same choice. We’re all on tight margins.

Even if I could get the cab out of the car park at the back of my house I would still be faced with treacherous snow-covered roads on my estate. I found out later the main roads were passable, but a lot could happen in the forty miles between here and London. And what if I got a job to Hampstead Village or somewhere and got stuck there? The TV was already showing vehicles stuck on motorways for several hours. I took the only decision I felt I could and called a writing day.

Thursday was also snowed off. Unbelievably it was now March, and the start of spring.

If anything, things were even worse on Friday. I’d enjoyed a couple of days off, but by now I was fed up and really wanted it to end.

I was confident I’d be able to work Saturday. I started the cab, but I wasn’t confident in getting off the driveway and around the little roads without getting stuck. I felt my time would be better spent on an early lunch at Wetherspoons so walked into town. Just about everyone else had the same idea. The pub was packed at 11.45. It was like the Spirit of the Blitz and we were all huddled down a tube station waiting for the all clear. By the way, if you’re writing a book, as I am, you have every justification for sitting in pubs. I was editing my work. I was working. While there was no guilt on that score, my food and drink bill was mounting.

Most of the snow had cleared by Sunday and I got a decent day’s work in. In London you wouldn’t have known anything untoward had happened weather-wise at all. Spring was coming, I was sure of it. And feeling hopeful, I declared the kipper season over.

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