Bill Carmichael: British resolve is on the skids

This is only to be expected in the soft South where, let's face it,

they aren't used to much in the way of the white stuff.

The BBC's Radio 5 Live went into full hysteria mode just before Christmas when it discovered there was a bit of ice on the Basingstoke bypass. And the fact that a driver in the Home Counties had to spend 20 minutes clearing his windscreen of frost was treated almost as a national emergency.

Now it has snowed again in Hampshire and Surrey we will never, ever hear the last of it – mark my words.

Those of us in the North were once made of sterner stuff, but not any more if the evidence of the last few days is anything to go by. At the mere hint of snow many schools immediately closed – even those on well-gritted main roads where many of the pupils and staff live within walking distance.

This is baffling to those of us who remember the winter of 1963 when schools stayed open throughout the coldest conditions of the century and our parents sent us in every day through snowdrifts that were well over head height.

Once we'd made alternative arrangements for the children, I headed off to the station en route to an important meeting, and to be fair the trains, at least earlier in the week, were offering a reasonable service.

But the normally packed carriages were half empty. Clearly many commuters had taken a peek through the bedroom curtains and decided simply not to bother.

I travelled the best part of 70 miles only to be told that my meeting was cancelled because the other attendees, who all lived within a 10-mile radius, "couldn't make it in". Ho hum. No problem, I thought to myself, I'll pop into Sheffield Central Library to do a bit of work. No chance. The library had shut its doors without any note of explanation.

I could just about understand this if it happened in an isolated village in the Peaks or Dales – but in the centre of a major city?

From there I visited the post office – or tried to, but the manager was ushering people out and locking the door. "We're closing because of the weather," he said. "The customers can't get here."

He must have noticed the puzzled expressions on the faces of the half dozen customers standing on the doorstep waiting to come in, because he quickly added: "And the staff can't get in either."

In the background, we could see members of staff putting on their coats ready for an early finish.

By mid-afternoon, the buses had stopped running, the John Lewis department store closed its doors and even the giant Meadowhall

shopping mall gave up the ghost by 4pm.

In contrast as far as I could tell, all the major supermarkets opened as normal. It prompts the question: If Tesco and Morrisons can manage, why can't the libraries, schools and post offices?

Is this the same nation that built an empire and defeated Hitler?

What on earth has happened to transform us from a rolled-up sleeves country of doers and triers to an enervated bunch of wussies who can't cope with a few inches of snow?

I suspect that at least part of the answer lies in the pernicious influence of the all-encompassing state.

In recent years, the state has insinuated itself into all areas of a citizen's life from regulating what we eat and drink to deciding what stories we should read to our children.

The state usually carries out these functions badly and at great cost – but before long citizens start looking to the state to do things they would normally do for themselves – like gritting the path to an elderly neighbour's front door.

It's far better if we reduce the role of the state to the essential minimum and take control of our lives once more.

It's time to get a grip – in more ways than one.