Chivalry isn't dead here in New York – it's just very cold. Yesterday I tried to hail a taxi, slipped on the ice, and scraped my hands on the pavement. A man nearby took one glance at me, opened the door of the cab and got in. I can't say I blame him – it was the first available taxi I had seen in 15 minutes.
It has been snowing, sleeting and hailing since New Year. In late December, when the first snowstorm hit, it brought with it that rare metrological occurrence: simultaneous thunderstorms and snowfall. Alas, just when we think we're out, we get covered in another blanket of white – with brown slush binding.
The monotonous weather is beginning to wear. Show me the window not frozen shut! Show me the pair of leather boots not stained with sidewalk salt!
And I'm not sure if it was the third blizzard or the 257th, but suddenly it's become socially acceptable to talk, at length, about the weather. Once the domain of the conversationally desperate, the snow is on everyone's lips as well as their heads.
Enough, I say. Enough with Facebook pictures of whiteout streets and sagging power lines. Enough with the tales of city buses beached like whales on the unpaved side streets. Please let the answer to "How are you?" stop being "Cold and wet." Enough with the use of the word 'snowpocalypse'.
I have no idea why cities like New York and London persist in having such short memories and fuses when it comes to the weather. This will all end and before we know it, New Yorkers will be complaining about the heat and taking pictures of kids cooling off in the fire hydrants.
Meanwhile, mindlessly discussing every flake that has the audacity to impede your path is the verbal equivalent of stealing my cab. Do I realise I am, at this very moment, guilty of going on my own tirade about the weather? Well, yes. But at least the typing is keeping me warm.
Sloane Crosley is the author of 'How Did You Get This Number' (Portobello)