The first snow in months, little noses pressed against cold glass, a slight fluttering in my tummy; I have so much to do, please, please don’t let this snow settle, until Christmas Eve at least. That’s the funny thing about snow isn’t it? When you are between one and fourteen years old it is THE best thing ever, once you reach that magical age of self-consciousness about falling over, the magic goes. It’s a nuisance. Unless you happen to be on a lovely Ski holiday, that is.
Snow fills Toddler boy with great joy, he can remember the last lot of snow. His baby sister wasn’t even a month old. I can remember the trip he dragged me on to our local Waitrose, the buggy literally bogged down in the snow stands out very clearly. In fact, most of my adult memories of snow, other than of skiing are of the sort of misery that comes with it. Clearing the snowy ice from the car, slippy sliding places, that special level of cold which chills you to the bone and so forth.
However, deep within the cavernous recesses of my brain lurk childhood snow memories. I can clearly remember building snow men, snowball fights and clearing snow with my dad. These are the sorts of memories that I hope that my children will have. The way they were both bizarrely licking the cold glass in anticipation of getting out in the snow earlier, I think somehow they will. I just need to regain my youthful enthusiasm for all things chilly.