Saturday morning. Get up, reluctantly. Put the coffee on. Tell the dog “after breakfast”. Pull up the blinds and have a look at the world.

The sky is greige; the grey-beige of seasonal indifference. And it’s snowing; tiny crystalline flakes dancing in the air. Pretty, if you like that sort of thing. Would be better with sunshine.

Later, after coffee and some semblance of breakfast, look outside again. The rooftops are white. When did that happen? It wasn’t the sticky kind of snow earlier.

Get bundled up while the dog dances and sings. It’ll be cold — it’s always going to be cold, until May (April if we’re lucky, June if we’re not) — but the dusting of snow belies just how cold.

It’s breathtakingly cold. Winds cut right through layers of wool and suck away every last pocket of body heat. Even the dog doesn’t want to be out here. It’s so windy, she nearly became a 10lb projectile.

And still, fingers and face numbing, cursing a touch screen, I’m compelled to record the moment.

Then we hurry home, plans for a photoshoot at Harborfont abandoned.

Wind gusts to 65km/h blow most of the snow away by that night. We don’t venture out again until they die down.