"Hope not. This place is cold and quiet enough without adding snow to the mix," he says, thinking of those rare snowy nights - proper snows, not the soggy stuff that turns to rain after a couple of hours - where the roar of London's nightlife would be smothered under a gradually thickening blanket of snow.

It got so quiet, Crowley could start to hear himself think, and that level of introspection never led to anything good.

The city is vast enough with a population in and about a hundred people, without any bugs or foxes or drunk college students or other urban wildlife out and about making the sort of ambient noise Crowley had gotten so used to.

It was almost as quiet as that time before time. Before much of anything, really.

Snow would make the city unbearable. Best not to dwell on it.

"Has the god of mischief ever fit a replacement pane...?" he asks with a curious lift of his brow.