An English suit in New York is just part of a Londoner’s NyLon life

There is a strange unreality to New York in the snow. Its frenetic pace slows to a trudge, the crawl of SUVs shows that even they are vulnerable, and jaywalking becomes both permissible and necessary. Deep snowbanks at the crossing points, piled to the waist by ploughs, don’t care about the usual order of the city.

Once you become accustomed to this new way of things, its charms begin to emerge. The weather demands presence and denies rumination: nothing matters on the ice except the surety of the next step.

Key dictates are passed around like dishes on a dinner table: “Consider wearing two of everything, including scarves.” “Use delivery drivers sparingly and tip them well.” “Give any snow that has yellowed a very wide berth.”

As a wannabe NyLon – someone who splits their time between New York and London – I like to imagine that I have got to know each place equally. But there is a wide range of what is considered normal in New York, so I often second-guess myself. I am assured by my in-laws, who live in Park Slope in Brooklyn, that the snow of the past week is historic in its depth and desire to stick around. Although it is not, they say, as bad as the North American blizzard of 2006.

It is also no match for hungry Brooklynites layered up like Michelin men. On the worst day of the snowstorm, Radio Bakery shrugs and has queues out of the door. I understand why when I pay a visit 24 hours later. Having to choose between the garlic knot and the apple brown butter croissant is, I can only imagine, like picking a favourite child.  So I eat both.

We were only meant to be in New York for four days, for a cacophony of birthdays, but flight cancellations double the length of our trip.

I take advantage by shopping for my wedding suit. I get a kick out of having nearly every extension of my body measured and catalogued, even if many are shorter than I would like. Thanks to the most thorough store I visit – Todd Snyder on Madison Avenue – I even know my knee circumference. There I am charmed by the head of haberdashery, mainly thanks to his Englishness, his swatch book of flannels from Yorkshire and his former life as a touring DJ for the criminally underrated Luscious Jackson. Whether that is enough to part with $2,500 (£1,819) for a custom suit is a matter for me and the exchange rate.

A weak dollar means we travellers do feel richer than usual, but I would have been better off starting to save than going to the Brooklyn Museum. The Monet and Venice exhibition promised an escape into warmer climes but delivered only dullness. I longed to be here for the entertainment of a previous visit, when my mother-in-law barely stopped an errant child from plunging her hand into Water Lilies (1919). That is not to say I would have cheered the kid on, but I would have appreciated the sentiment.

One painting I do enjoy is The Break-up of the Ice, a depiction of the frozen Seine, which has somehow found its way into the exhibition. But my issue with it, as with the other Monets, is that it doesn’t betray any degree of messiness. Everything is too pure, too still. If only the artist had come to New York, where people slide and honk their way through the inclement conditions, and where pissing dogs give the snow a particular lustre. It’s not for everyone, but after eight days stomping through the tundra, I’ve decided that it is for me.

Photograph by Charly Triballeau/AFP via Getty Images