Snow in Cardiff

In the Olden Days, when we used to have snow in January, one day I woke to find Cardiff covered in thick, fluffy, silent snow of the kind that many under-twenties can barely remember, or have only seen when abroad.

I was working as a temp for a company called Manpower, doing all sorts of jobs before starting a teacher-training course. My current job was working for a firm of architects, which sounded very grand.

I was the tea-lady. I loved it.

I loved it because everyone loves the tea-lady. As I pushed my tea-trolley round, laden with Welsh Cakes and and Bara Brith and Bath Buns and Eccles Cakes and Bakewell Tart and other fine British goodies, I was greeted by cheery smiles from all.

I wasn't in the usual mould of tea-ladies, being only twenty-two. so I was a bit of a curiosity. I had a good memory so would remember who liked the Bath Buns and who liked the Bara Brith and I would make sure that I had people's favourites saved for them.

Because I was a temp, if I didn't work, then I didn't get paid. So on the day of the snow I looked out of the window and decided that cycling, my usual method of transport, was not an option. I decided to walk.

The snow was deep - at least six inches deep. In some places there were drifts that were much, much deeper.

I put on my bright yellow plastic boots, which had "Bombo Boots" written on them in blue - - oh yes, how strange, the things you remember - and set off through the streets of Cardiff.

There were no cars and very few people. What I remember is the white everywhere, and the silence.

I reached the architects' offices and the caretaker let me in. Everything was dark and silent. Nobody except me had put in an appearance, it seemed. Oh well, I was there, so Manpower would have to pay me.

I made my way up to the little room where I made the tea and coffee, just out of habit really. And there I found one lone young architect, trying to make the water boiler work. I tried to explain and realised that he couldn't understand me. So I asked him where he was from.

"France. I am French."

I was pleased - for me, it was a good answer, for I spoke French, not entirely fluently, but well enough. He asked me if all tea-ladies in Cardiff spoke French and I assured him that they did.

I made him a cup of coffee and he told me, in French, about where he came from, which was Provence. Outside the window thick flakes of snow were falling. He told me about Provence in the summer, and how hot and dry it would get, and how all the colours were orange and brown and yellow. He paused for a moment. "Et tous les toits sont rouges." Then, in English:
"And all the roofs are red."

I looked at him, and there were tears in his eyes, and there were tears in mine too, and I don't think we really knew why.

We pretended it hadn't happened. We put our coats and boots on, walked out into the snow, and went our separate ways.