What's left of the so called deep freeze in 30 years, was washed down the drain by heavy rain in the last few days. Even the headless and limbless snowman down the road succumbed to the ray of sunshine peeking behind grey clouds. But record the deep freeze in thirty years is something I must do. And just as well that I didn't quite escape it.
I arrived on 10th January after an uneventful flight, wedged between a bright young student and a tourist on his way back from Bali. Waiting for my daughter to pick me up at Terminal Four, I felt the sting of cold air on my face, while the rest of my body just sort of froze only to be thawed once in the warmth of the car.
London was still sleeping when I arrived and looking out of the window, as the snowflakes drifted by, I was transported back to the country I left less than 20 hours before, where I had enjoyed the warmth of family and friends and yes, that of the sauna and spa.
I was back in that small tent, feeling the rivers of sweat flowing down my back and I was back in that warm milk bath, enjoying the soak.
But now I am back in cold, wet and grey London and I took refuge under the duvet almost immediately. But work dictated that I left the comforts of the room soon after.
Leaving the house for the first time, I felt how inadequately prepared I was for the winter. I inched my way dodging icy patches in my newly acquired shoes bought at a small shop in Bangi the evening before I left. I had to buy them because the only pair I had at home was peed upon by Kissinger.
The new pair felt like a thin cardboard on my feet.
Snow came back with a vengeance while I was sleeping off my jetlag. I woke up to a blanket of snow and half hoping that the scheduled trip to Oxford would be cancelled. But it wasn't and just as well because I got to see the English countryside in winter wonderland.
There's something magical about snow and snowflakes. It brings out the child in you and the group of Malaysian journalists standing by the roadside were soon throwing snowballs at each other.
I remember a trip to Wolverhampton searching for what's left of Brinsford Lodge, the teacher's training college in the fifties. Somewhere along a very narrow road, we stopped an English man on his bike and asked him about Brinsford Lodge and he said:
“Oh, I do remember Brinsford Lodge and the Malay boys who went there. They'd be the only ones to play football in the snow!”
Other winter and home coming stories: