It doesn't matter how old you are technically; when it snows, you're seven.

Anyone who lives in England will know that the past few days have been defined by one wintery, wonderful thing; snow. The whole country is covered in the stuff, and my home in north Derbyshire is (thank God) no exception. When I set off for school yesterday there was only a gentle dusting on the ground, but it started up again as I was walking and by the time I reached my school (only about twenty minutes later) I looked like I'd been frosted.

By the time we had finished first period - an ear-bleedingly crap General Studies lessons - it had somehow made it's way around the entire school that we were being sent home. No teacher had actually confirmed this, but call it student intuition; we can smell hometime. When it was actually announced, I swear most of Chesterfield will have heard the shriek of delight. In any case, we were all kicking our merry ways home by about ten in the morning, everyone feverishly planning to go home, grab a sledge and find a decent slope before they were all 'taken'.

I, however, was making slow, nervous progress towards my friend's house, not daring to go sledgin, or even up the hill that leads to my house, due to me unhelpful footwear. New Look boots may look pretty, but made to grip they were not. I lost count of how many times I slipped somewhere around number seven, and at one point managed what I can only describe as a truly spectacular front-flip into a hedge.

I felt hugely cheated of my sledging opportunity, and so became hugely excited when school was cancelled today as well. A group of about twenty mates, including myself (obviously) found a brilliant hill that made for excellent sledging without dumping you into a river or a tree. Several of us (who are all sixteen/seventeen, incidentally) started rolling down the hill, purely for the fun of it, and the more vengeful of us began a snowball fight that included burials, face-plants and the vicious ice-down-the-pants shots and everybody threw themselves face-first down the slope with reckless, elated abandon. We were acting like five year olds, and I'm not ashamed to say it.

As far as I'm concerned, it's a sign of irreversible maturity when you look out of the window, see snow and say, "Aw, dammit -- I can't get into work!" But even if you are one of those somewhat miserable old sods, as soon as you actually get into the snow and build a snowman, go sledging, have a snowball fight or make a decent snow angel, you revert to the behaviour of a small child, and, frankly, that's exactly the way it should be.

As far as I'm concerned, the purpose of snow is to free you from school, give you a chance to have fun and to get revenge on Callum for dropping what was less of a snowball and more of a snow mountain on top of your head. So I returned cold, drenched, aching and with a bruise the size of a football blossoming beautifully on my leg, but I had a fantastic time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.