As the native English shivered in their flimsy Primark rags and begged for God to make the bad thing stop, the country's Polish migrants went to work wearing an extra woolly jumper and observed that the streets were unusually free from traffic.
"I wait for bus - bus not arrive, so I run," gasped office temp Jolanta Kaczmarek, standing patiently in three inches of snow. "I here now, but office closed. Is English bank holiday?"
Meanwhile, construction worker Wojciech Czarnecki was busy mixing cement on an otherwise-deserted building site.
"Is slightly chilly, no?" he said as he hauled another sack from his chain-shod van. "Foreman to give big anger when get to site, find others all oversleep. My lovely new cements set soon. Is terrible waste, yes?"
Meanwhile, the native people of the south east were huddling around their roaring fan heaters with the central heating on full blast, shivering in cotton-and-polyester summer clothing and sobbing uncontrollably. Outside, the streets were littered with snowdrifts up to ten centimetres deep, and tits which had been frozen off lay where they fell - to be picked up by teams of Eastern Europeans, who said they would send them home to their wives, sisters and daughters.
"My sister in Budapest very sad, say she never afford expensive plastic surgeries," explained László Borbély, stuffing a fine pair of abandoned breasts into a carrier bag. "These magnificent English charlies make for her very nice Christmas present."
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