People like to moan about the winter here in Berlin. From about the middle of September, or whenever the supermarkets break out the Christmas chocolate – whichever comes first – the grumbles of a city fully used to an expecting sixth months of grey skies, dark afternoons and cold, cold, cold temperatures begin to sound. When it finally comes, with the first cold snap of minus temperatures or the initial dumping of a load of snow that sends taxis sliding down the street and kids temporarily insane with the possibilities, people walk hunched and huddled against the biting winds that come, of course, from Russia, and look for sanctuary in the cozy cafes or the warmth of their own apartments. I think it is why Christmas is such a big deal, bringing light, cheer and mulled wine to the streets that lifts the mood for a month or two before it is all of a sudden January and – then – most brutally of all, February. Somehow the shortest month of the year always feels the longest.
Under a Grey Sky 
