My big sister sends me excited emails during the winter -
“Have you got any snow yet?”
“Has it got there yet?”
She lives 50 miles east of here, in flat, flat Lincolnshire, where snow is a rarity. I live in the hills of Derbyshire, where snow is frequent and deep and annoying. I am so over snow. Yes, it is pretty, yes, it lights up the landscape when it is dingy and dirty and the sky is grey, but boy does it get in the way. When the roads are dangerously icy, I am stranded out here in the sticks, missing my sax lessons, missing the cinema, missing everything.
I loved playing in it when the children were young – sledging, snowballing, building snowmen and igloos. If they were here now, I’d love it again.
At least I’m not fretting about fuel bills as so many people are, though our woodpile is diminishing fast. Jane has kindly offered us the felled tree in her garden, and that’s great. We’ll fetch it as soon as the ice has melted on the 1 in 4 lane to her house.
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