swoosh

Snow is so watchable. It's almost impossible not to stop work and stare out of the window. The view changes all the time, and the light goes from a haze of pale grey to a vast white hillside throwing back the light to the sky.

The schools have closed. Children are swooshing down the hill, throwing snowballs, building snowmen. I lent our sledge to the lassie next door so I'll have to slide down the garden on a tea tray and hope I stop before crashing through the fence into the river and disturbing the ducks.

You're never too old to sledge on a tea tray. You're never too old to build a snowman. He has a carrot nose and a bendy carrot mouth, button eyes, a hat and a scarf. I haven't made a snow angel yet, but I'll do that tomorrow. I want a Campaign for Real Weather.

All writers seem to end up writing about snow (apart from the ones who never see any). It's something to do with wanting to catch it, keep it, and get it out again to look at it and remember how stunning it was. Or maybe it just comes from gazing out of windows watching it on days like today.