Which member of the 'cold tribe' are you?

The Beast from the East has blanketed the capital in snow and everyone’s lost their mind. From colleagues donning crampons to skiers in Soho, Phoebe Luckhurst reports on the cold tribes to spot
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Pheobe Luckhurst1 March 2018

Extreme conditions encourage extreme characteristics. When all is normal, collectively we are measured; but when things take a turn for the intemperate we become accordingly outrageous. So it has happened with the polar vortex: this week, as temperatures in London hurtled to -4 and brought almost 5cm of snowfall, the city lost its head.

Skiers traversed Soho, snowflakes stockpiled tins and snowday deniers used the expression “stiff upper lip” so many times you, ironically, developed a nervous twitch. You were disturbed to learn that several of your colleagues owned crampons; you were also disturbed to learn that several of your relatives can be felled by the mere sight of an icy puddle.

Snow makes monsters of us all — here are all the winter beasts in the menagerie.

The refusenik

Last week, as temperatures hurtled below freezing, the refusenik scoffed: “It’s February, it’s a bit cold — so what?” At lunchtime you spy them on Twitter hate-reading pieces about the weather, retweeting choice ones with the comment, “Why is this news???” In conversation the term, “Beast from the East” is employed with exaggerated sarcasm and occasionally with air quotes around the word “beast”.

Their hot take is that snow is basically just rain and only idiots are excited. By the end of the day this position has transformed from mere misanthropy to a state-of-the-nation address: the collective insanity is a betrayal of the stiff upper lip and makes them ashamed to be British.

When someone short-sightedly worries out loud that their train might be cancelled, the refusenik rounds on them with an acid comment about the superior infrastructure of other European capitals which “endure this sort of weather every year”.

Indeed, inexplicably, they suddenly have countless first-hand accounts of said superior infrastructure. You notice they have upgraded a snowy weekend in Bavaria a couple of years ago into “that winter I lived in Berlin”.

The snowflake

Every day this week the snowflake has arrived swaddled in thermals, tears hardening to ice in their eyes. They shiver theatrically — you did not realise shivering was loud — until someone takes one for the team and asks them how their commute was. The snowflake does not detect the weariness in your tone. Ten minutes later the anecdote climaxes with the revelation that the bus terminated a stop early and they had to walk 400 metres in the snow.

The office is central heated to Saharan levels and yet the snowflake refuses to remove their hat and dons special keyboard-friendly fingerless gloves. They make so many cups of tea you become momentarily preoccupied with the strength of their bladder — and also whether they are at least taking the gloves off when they use the bathroom.

As 12.30pm arrives they repeat the line “I could really go for a big bowl of soup” four times. No one takes one for the team and pretends to care.

The shirker

Around 7.30am the shirker sends an email (subject line: “transport issues”). “Bad news, chaps...” — they’ve checked the National Rail app and trains into Waterloo are being cancelled left, right and centre. There’s no point them coming in but do get them on email all day if you need anything. After reading you reply immediately with a question about that morning’s meeting. They do not respond for four hours.

In said meeting someone points out, slowly, pointlessly, that the shirker lives on the Northern line. Later, stuck on the bus in gridlocked traffic, you paw half-heartedly at Instagram and notice that the shirker has, unthinkingly, Instagrammed the view from the top of Parliament Hill, sledge in shot (#snowday).

The prepper

It is no understatement to say that the prepper has been gearing up for this week for years. Every mild winter they are privately disappointed as the heater under their desk continues to gather dust. Sometimes, on chillier days, you swear you have heard it thrumming and felt, albeit briefly, an oppressive wall of heat hit your ankles as you pass by their desk.

On snowday they arrive in a coat not only suited for a cold snap but in fact designed for an expedition across the Arctic Circle. You know this because they tell you about its high specs in breathless, rhapsodic tones.

Laboriously, the prepper removes their crampons in the middle of the breakout zone. At lunchtime they spend 10 minutes putting them back on to walk to Pret across the road from the office. As they eat a tuna and cucumber baguette at their desk, you notice they are bulk-buying 5kg bags of grit on Amazon.

The absentee

A holiday in the first third of the year is, unilaterally, a good decision — whether or not there is a polar vortex it is guaranteed that our sceptred, beleaguered isles will be miserable. It is also guaranteed that anyone who has booked a “week in the sun” will be unbearable.

However, this week the absentee is in unprecedented paroxysms of self-congratulation. As you flood the group WhatsApp with pictures of your front path (“Just ice skating to work, lads”) they shoot four back — all the same beach shot, taken in front of a sun-drenched horizon, with no explanation but “hahahahahhahahahaha”.

The barrage continues and you mute the group. At lunchtime you see they shared the best one with the caption “#snowmo”. Realistically, you realise they are jealous to be missing out. This is scant consolation.

The enthusiast

It is midday and you are shuffling through Soho grasping at lampposts, trying to ensure nipping out for lunch does not become the last thing you do. There is a kerfuffle ahead. Someone has not — as you fear — met their fate; instead, there is a group of skiers traversing Greek Street, where they will bulk buy Maldon smoked rock salt to throw over their doorsteps. The mood is jolly hockey sticks — you suspect every one of these people has an item of “Keep Calm and Carry On” memorabilia, and possibly something from the “gin o’clock” movement. You hear them saying that they “had to get to work somehow”, though their raw cheeks and vibrating teeth suggest they have not yet made it to the office.

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