Wandering the streets of Hampstead this morning is akin to trawling the faux Dickensian streets of some quaint model village or Disney Land. Trees, houses, cars, privet bushes and eye lashes are dusted in a bright white snow: the fairytale variety all virginal and talc like. I love the way freshly settled snow evokes the childish spirit in all of us but loathe the way it ruins the suede on my Olive, Temperley Gilet.
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