The April "blizzard"

"Bl-oo-dy hell!" I heard Squirrel exclaim this past Sunday morning around 7 a.m. I had not even bothered to look out the window, obsessed with replacing the recently cracked coffee pot as I was. The prospect of going without coffee horrifies me.
"What, hon?" I asked from the bedroom, where the curtains were closed. I thought she'd found a big wasp in the kitchen, just as I had Friday night before work.
"Snow," she said. I dashed to the bathroom and pulled up the mottled-glass window. This is the sight that greeted me:





It is worth recalling that we had gone through the entire months of December, January and February without so much as a flurry. A few flakes fell during a March cold snap. And now this, on April 6.
Late last Friday morning, I went for a run through the park. The sun was strong, not a cloud in the sky; and the temperature hovered around the 65°F mark. The big lawn was a lovely medium green with small white flowers blooming across it; trees in bloom, bees buzzing, birds a-twitter. It was a springtime eden. Snow was the last thing on my—or anyone's—mind. Come Sunday morning, just 48 hours later, that same lawn and everything surrounding it was a winter wonderland. It was beautiful though, and the snow really cleaned up my sneakers.
And I finally got to experience some actual snowfall this year.
Of course, this being sensationalist Britain, the papers were all referring to the "blizzard" the next morning. It was no such thing. It was a light snowstorm. The wind was no more than a stiff breeze, visibility was good for at least 50 feet, accumulation was no more than ½-inch per hour.
Let me put it this way, if I compare a blizzard to a large dragonfly, then the conditions we experienced Sunday morning were an aphid. And speaking of insects, I'm sure even the wasp would agree with me on that point.
But, controlling my raucous New England laughter, I must admit that the snowfall was exciting—in its subdued, subtle, quirky British way.