I was promised snow.

So this morning, I wake up with a searing headache, the result of a touch too much Champagne at our office holiday party (or as the Brits called them, "office do's").

In a half coma, I slap my BlackBerry hard enough until it stops with that stupid "Antelope" ring (dun-dun, DUHN-DUHN, dun-dun) and remember walking out of the party last night through Mayfair, seeing big, fluffy dandelion-shaped snowflakes falling from the sky. They looked particularly pretty against the Ralph Lauren store windows, which were styled in that cozy, woodsy, wintry way the company does so well.

I emerge from my bed, thinking I'll be back in about two secs, and take a peek outside. NOTHING. Just dry, frosty pavement. No big whoop. My fantasy of some sort of exciting workplace snow day phone chain evaporated in about two seconds. To compound the disappointment, I realized I was running late.

My searing headache and I shuffle over to the bathroom to look for some Nuprofen, what Brits take for headaches. (Sadly, there's no Exedrin Tension Headache here.) I take out the box, which is empty. Fab.

Holding my head and covering my right eye, I make my way to the kitchen. (Honestly, it's not that far.) I open the fridge, anticipating uncracking my last can of Diet Coke, and it's nowhere to be found. I see a crushed can in recycling. My beau, who came home later than I did last night and was certainly in a snack-y mood, was definitely the culprit in this whodunnit DC mystery. A packet of empty potato chips lay on the floor. Exhibit B.

I check the internet quickly just to make sure my street wasn't miraculously missed by the snowstorm of the century, and no dice: Northern Line -- Good Service.

I was promised snow.