There’s only been a smattering of snow sticking here today, which means we’re not snowed in, but we’re at least able to enjoy the prettiness of it. My family in Lancashire have been intermittently unable to leave their houses in the appropriately named Higher Croft, since the first snowfalls at Christmas. So we should be careful what we wish for.
Yesterday I had seen snow coming on the forecast, and so managed to sneak in a jog around the park, dodging “dog-walkers” and—a far greater obstacle around 3pm—parents and their children. It became very rapidly clear to me that, while you can take the Witney dweller out of the SUV, you can’t etc. As two bizzy mwms and their separate vast pushchairs (empty because Joshua or Rosie is being a runaroundy little shit) came to an abrupt halt, blocking the entire footpath, I was at least grateful not to be running in the forecasted ice: at that point, I needed every inch of my own personal stopping distance.
Today K. and I only managed a walk into town and back, through the brittle lemon sunlight and fresh, dry air. We walked some of the way like penguins, putting our feet straight down, trying not to slip. It was good to at least see some of the cold winter’s day, cross the nearly-full Windrush, mock the ducks. The town centre itself was surprisingly busy: it only takes a light dusting in winter for people to start thinking about stocking up, just in case.
Tomorrow the temperature is set to hover around, but most definitely above, zero. And so it will all be gone again, like a daydream, a single daytime’s dream. At least we carpe-d the heck out of it.