91Èȱ¬

As I begin to write, the power miraculously comes back on. Outside all is still. The usual commuter bustle into Washington isn't happening. The scene is of a snow-covered battlefield where trees are the fallen. Oh dear, the power has just gone off again.

Last year it was "snowmageddon". This year it is the "thundersnow". From the office window we shivered as we looked out on thick flurries of the stuff falling from a bruised sky. Thundersnow, the meteorologists' term, was about to turn a routine commute home into something from a disaster movie. I accepted the kind offer of a lift from my bureau chief Simon Wilson, despite dire warnings from colleagues that the city was gridlocked. I usually take the metro and a bus for my short commute to the suburbs but wasn't sure public transport was up to thunder snow.

The reports on the radio had disgruntled reporters stuck in tunnels, Pentagon correspondents, trapped on the "Beltway", phoning in to tell the world, or at least Washington, that they hadn't touched their accelerators for over an hour.

So we found consolation in movement, however slow. Our snail-like progression was at least progress. Like a herd of exhausted animals, the cars and trucks and buses struggled through the growing blizzard, leaving the stragglers and the wounded to their fate. Cars with wheels frantically spinning. Buses grinding gear. Heavy taxis slip-sliding sideways. Simon remarked with sad satisfaction: "They don't know how to drive in snow." Simon, I am glad to say, does know how to drive in snow. A veteran of alpine driving and a graduate of a 91Èȱ¬ four-wheel driving course we didn't spin or skid once on our marathon trek in his little two-wheel drive.

The herd made its compassionless way past the less fortunate, edging around abandoned cars. At least we saw none of the crazy driving on pavements and blocking of intersections reported by the stoic but excited radio presenters.

On Connecticut Avenue it got worse. Thundersnow is really "Blitz-Schnee", lightning snow. You couldn't hear the thunder. But you could see the lightning and the white world it illuminated. Suddenly the sky lights up in blue, like the flash of a gigantic camera, like some weird new weapon and for a few seconds the radio dies, phones cut out, the lights vanish. A huge electromagnetic pulse takes out everything, like the beginning of a new type of war.

Clumps of snow are banging on the roof now, like giant snowballs hurled from above. They are falling from overladen trees, which themselves look threatening. Buses are littered across the road at right-angles. One slides into the gutter and sways dangerously, leaning to one side. I am convinced that it is going to fall over, but it lurches almost upright and inches forward. More and more cars are abandoned. Two intrepid fellows on skis whizz past us. This so-familiar road is almost unrecognisable and all the more threatening for being a shade of something known. I wouldn't be too surprised if a couple of zombies staggered past.

We eventually take a side road. I would be gibbering and taking my chances with the skiers with many drivers but I trust steady Simon in the snow. It is breathtakingly beautiful. The branches of trees are so heavy with snow that they droop at unnatural but wonderful angles. It is a magic world, Narnia under the Snow Queen. But there are increasing signs that the dryads have been engaged in battle. Their limbs scatter the road. Not the odd twig or branch. Thick long sides of trees have been ripped off and hurled to the ground. We grimace. A car wouldn't stand much of a chance.

Eventually we make it back, a 25-minute journey to the suburbs that has stretched into four hours. Our emergency supplies, one packet of BBQ crisps, one packet of apple cinnamon crisps, two small bottles of water, have been consumed. Within five minutes of walking through the door there is a lightning pulse, a noise like machinery hurting and the power goes off. Simon makes the half a mile trip back to his house, but not without jumping into the cab of a stranded florists' van and using his snow-driving skills to negotiate it to the side of the road.

Out of my window I can see a tree crashed on to the roof of my neighbour's garage, his car hemmed in by fallen branches. Two very tall pines, weighed by snow, lean in towards one another like mantis about to fight. I have four hours, two minutes of battery power left on the laptop and a 3G card. You may hear from me later about the debt. If not, I will be digging out the drive in splendid electronic isolation.

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