It's a Jolly Holiday

It snowed in England yesterday for the first time in 18 years and according to my mother, who lives in Central London, the entire country shut down and folded its arms. Inclement weather notwithstanding, you have to understand how big a deal this snowfall was -- like the heatwave that almost killed us there a few summers back. Just as they don't have air conditioners or ice cold drinks to ward off the heat, nor do they have a plan of action that will unclog the streets or train tracks when it snows. Apparently, Primrose Hill, my favorite high point, next to Regent's Park, was clogged with 600 gleeful souls, whizzing down the gentle slope on everything from street signs to an actual ironing-board. And if you're vaguely familiar with Monty Python, Absolutely Fabulous, The Office, Little Britain, or Katherine Tate, then you know that Brits are essentially lunatic beneath all the pomp and circumstance. It's not hard to imagine Her Royal Majesty, behind the safety of the palace walls, far from prying eyes, letting her hair down after a Guinness or two. I can imagine her bouncing maniacally on the four poster perhaps, with the Corgies springing up and down beside her. Philip, of course, is at the other end of the building, practicing his Groucho Marx gait, wearing the accompanying glasses and mustache, and perhaps one of Lizzy's glittery evening numbers, for good measure. In acting out their abandoned inner child, like every other Brit, they are proof that behind the repressed, tight upper lip of your inscrutable Englishman exists a frothing madman or madwoman, just waiting for an opportunity to burst forth. Excuse me while I go drink to that.