Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.

 Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow. 

Throughout the ages, snow has always comforted us, uplifted us, occasionally annoyed us but then left us stunned and glad it happened when it did because somehow we were always missing it particularly after a lengthy absence. Yesterday we knew it was going to snow in Britain because the weather forecasters had given us amber warnings, smoke signals, cautionary tales of snow falls from long ago and the profound, if temporary impact it would have on the rest of the United Kingdom.

By late Saturday night this should have been a self fulfilling prophecy, something we were convinced would happen eventually even though we hadn't a clue when and in how many quantities. The children of the world were jumping up and down with excitement, faces rosy and primed for action. Mum and dad were frantically searching for the conventional bobble hats, scarves and plenty of equipment for the building of snowmen. Then there were the sleds, affectionately known as tea trays. We were set.

In a huge swathe of Middle England, the heart of the countryside, Wales and then much of the Grampian highlands and lowlands in Scotland, the white stuff was poised to tumble down from leaden skies with a glorious profusion. The rest of the country had to watch and wait in breathless anticipation, hoping rather than expecting but privately wishing that they too could gingerly tread in vast mounds of snow before challenging each other to endless bouts of snowball throwing at each other. 

There is a picturesque purity about snow during the wintertime and something reminiscent of those dark Sunday evenings on BBC 2 during the 1970s. Then David Vine, a most knowledgeable sports commentator, introduced us to the delights of Ski Sunday. While most of Britain was experiencing the wind, rain and sleet of a British winter, the likes of Switzerland, Italy, Austria and France were inundated with snow that just fell incessantly, covering the whole of the Alps in a blanket of snow, curtains of snowflakes swaying softly and gently against those stunning backdrops of mountain ranges caked with yet more.

And then when the cable cars had offloaded the latest arrival of skiers with ambitious visions of completing their sessions with effortless ease, we sat at home, unsure, sceptical, deeply suspicious and wary. They may have made it look easy on the eye but we had no intention of copying their intrepid exploits on the slopes of Europe. This looked far too dangerous to even the most casual observer. It was perfectly appealing to those who fancied something that appeared far too challenging and potentially problematic. But we'd made up our minds. It was never for us. 

But it was the view from the top that did it for us. It was a long way down and you'd have to be mad to push those sticks into the bottom layer of snow and just hurtle at top speed, defying the laws of aerodynamics, pretending to be that famous Austrian skier Franz Klammer who won gold in the Winter Olympics of 1972. It must have been a real buzz, the loveliest of journeys, a major achievement if you liked that kind of thing but not your cup of tea. So you settled for tea and biscuits on a Sunday evening and finishing off the People or Mail on Sunday newspaper in a comfy chair. 

Then you thought about that magnificent cinematic masterpiece about Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards simply called Eddie the Eagle. Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards was a hopelessly delusional man who woke up one day in his parents home and decided that he simply wanted to win a gold medal at the Winter Olympics. The sniggering doubters and cynics thought he needed to have his head examined. But Eddie Edwards was never to be deterred and, in the end, got his way.

The hours, months and years of hard, intensive coaching and training would have led most of us to just give up after five minutes. And yet Edwards obsessive hard work, relentless dedication to duty and a steely determination to prove people wrong, brought their just desserts. The crusty, singularly dispassionate British Olympic committee had to wipe the egg off their faces. It was time to climb down from their traditional ivory tower. 

You were constantly reminded of the winter of 1962 which seemed to go on for ever metaphorically. Your adoring and loving mum and dad were living in a flat with only a paraffin heater to provide us with warmth. Outside it was freezing, the snow was driving across North London vigorously and unstoppably. The snow came down in huge lorry loads, slanting across rapidly emptying roads and streets and didn't stop until March 1963. But you were a baby and had no inkling of what was going on outside. 

When your mum tried admirably to get out and do some shopping she paused for a moment and must have wondered if she'd lost her senses. My mum was the most perfect parent and had resolved to ignore the doom and gloom scaremongers. Life had to continue for those who were just hellbent on feeding and watering their young children. But you can only imagine that it must have been the most terrifying period of our lives. You were almost stranded and confined to your home because the heavens had opened up and the snow just kept dropping onto the pavements, staying there seemingly indefinitely. 

In hindsight, the story that has been passed down the family on a number of occasions, now sounds beyond hilarious, a mixture of the barely believable and delightfully absent minded. A week after my birth, my lovely mum traipsed out to the local corner shop. You had to admire her guts and tenacity. After topping up her basket with the basic necessities, mum must have buttoned up her coat as quickly as possible, wrapped her scarf around her neck and then rushed out of the shop.

For a moment, the desire to just sprint home could only have been uppermost in her mind. Little did she know that her brand new first son was just kipping away in his pram, stirring tentatively and then opening up horrified eyes. Naturally, mum just wanted to rub her frozen hands together in front of a toasty heater before lifting her son out of the aforesaid pram and then cuddling her offspring with an understandable, loving tenderness. But her son was still at the corner shop, bawling and crying his eyes out, tears streaming down his cheeks with all the force of a reservoir pouring out water. 

So the snow had totally pre-occupied the thoughts of a suburban mother who just wanted to give her baby the best start in life. You may have been forgotten about for a while but in those far off days you could leave your babies anywhere for any length of time without worrying that the baby would be kidnapped, stolen or just abandoned for who knows how long. At the time, of course, my mum's lapse of memory must have frightened the lives out of both my mum and doting grandparents. But my brother and yours truly can only laugh about the incident without any sense of shame.

The last of the heaviest of snowfall was in the winter of 1981. Then the motorways and kerbsides were laden with gritters and tons of sand. You can still remember trudging home laboriously through thick acres of black ice and snow that had once again disturbed our normal daily work and school patterns. The buses were now few and far between and, in some cases, just not working at all because the wheels and tyres were still ground to a halt by heavy clumps of snow. 

This morning we awoke to rain this time, Saturday's brief snowfest now a distant memory.  The roads were just wet and saturated with the remnants of the snow that had melted almost indefinitely. For a while, you thought back to that first winter of your life and were delighted to know that you had no recollection of it whatsoever. But the kids love the snow and may return to school tomorrow morning disappointed, maybe crestfallen and wishing it could come back again almost immediately. Sorry kids that may be a long wait but for the first time we did see the white stuff and how exciting that felt.