As the next mini ice-age dawns, like chameleons, we are slowly adapting to life in the frozen north.

Snow shovels are selling like hot cakes, as are all-in-one snow suits which look more like something you’d wear in an emergency at Sellafield than for a walk in the park.

Commuters are wearing elasticated crampons that slip over shoes, and we’re all learning how to drive more slowly and safely.

That’s one of the main plus points about the cold snap – motorists are sticking to sensible speeds. Even the usual lunatics seem to have realised that it is better to take your time than end up in A&E with broken bones and a huge insurance claim against you.

There are one or two exceptions. In thick, driving snow, a bus driver repeatedly honked his horn at me as I crawled home at 20mph. I eventually pulled over to let him pass.

Snow is a major inconvenience, but it does us some favours. It slows down our frantic pace of life. People take a step back and realise that they can’t do everything they’d normally do.

For the past couple of weeks, people have completely changed their routines. They have made fewer trips to the supermarket, stocking up on hearty meal-making ingredients to last a week rather than grabbing a couple of takeaways for one night only.

They have stayed at home on an evening rather than going out, and families have ventured out together on a weekend to enjoy the snow, rather than indulging in the usual pastime of trailing around out-of-town shopping centres.

Ironically, however, the snow forced me to the shops, as I searched high and low for a sledge. Everywhere I went said the same: “We had a load, but they flew out of the door.” The snow was forecast well in advance, leaving firms to make a killing, but I couldn’t locate a sledge in a ten-mile radius of my home.

People have been considerate of others. My next-door-neighbour regularly cleared snow from all our elderly neighbours’ drives.

Snow isn’t all bad. It’s very pretty, and does a good job of hiding the litter that blights this country.

That’s not to say I love the white stuff, the Russia-like temperatures and the spear-like icicles hanging precariously from our guttering.

I hate getting dressed in so many layers – I can barely bend down to pick up my work bag – I hate waiting on freezing cold platforms for trains that never show up, I hate it when the kids arrive home dripping water everywhere and I’m living in fear of the heating bills.

But at least it slows us down, helps us take stock, and realise that it doesn’t matter if things take a little longer.