In the north west quarter of Copenhagen three people are out for a walk. It’s the end of January and it’s so damned dark most of the day that the snow is a welcomed light bulb; reflecting which ever light the universe lets through to this part of the planet. The snow crunches slightly as our feet pack the flakes with the weight of our bodies. The air smells like it’s been dry cleaned, in Asia, where a bit of fragrance is added as the fabric is folded neatly. For us three companions, the comfort of the falling snow is like being wrapped by a sea of warm goose feathers.