Cold.

The cold frost glistens under the warm orange sunlight, each contradicting the other in both temperature and colour. Underfoot, grit keeps the roads safe. The weekend’s drunken vomit lies frozen near to bus stops. Scarfed drivers hop out of their cars to dump piles of hastily-written Christmas cards into the post box to allow, doubtless, their only communication with some names in that pile to arrive on time.

Proper winter temperatures are finally biting. All I want for Christmas is snow.