The lake is almost completely frozen over. If you stand on the bridge and peer down into the water, you glimpse some interesting objects suspended in partial cryogenesis: twigs, leaves and feathers are to be expected; Starbucks’ cups and biros less so.
The birds are, for the most part, unconcerned by the frozen lake. They perch on the ice looking mildly bemused, occasionally pecking at something on the surface in the hope that it’s edible. One seagull stood in the same place for so long that I worried her feet had been frozen to the spot, but it turned out she was just stopping for a think, and soon moved on.
St James’s Park is as pretty in winter as it is in summer, and less busy (though not by much)
Somebody somewhere is making a fortune selling black woolly hats with “LONDON” emblazoned across them. Every other person I passed was wearing one, having presumably miscalculated the amount of clothing necessary to sustain life in this weather.