I feel a bit sorry for snow.
At first it reminds me of a new toy.
We wait, excited, for its arrival.
Will it be what we asked for? Or a bit of a let-down?
Then the big day comes.
We upwrap our windows expectantly and stare at it in wonder for a while.
And, like a new toy, we can’t get enough.
Our beloved conversations about the weather seem to ‘snowball’.
Plus they take on a competitive note – the winner being the person who was able to travel the smallest distance and has the most snow.
For the record I got to the end of my drive before having to turn back.
While the patio table – our technical measuring device – had about seven inches on it.
Competition also sees us all embrace our inner sculptor.
Of course my family had to go beyond the conventional, building a snowwizard, a snowpig and a very creepy couple sitting on our bench.
It was brilliant. I didn’t even mind losing the snowball fight or going for a walk.
But then something changes. Almost as if a switch has been flicked; a switch only grown-ups seem to have.
And suddenly snow just isn’t fun any more. You stop taking pictures of every tree and walking around with your mouth open, when no-one is looking, trying to catch every snowflake.
Not that I did that, you understand.
Anyway... Instead you sigh at it, nudge it tentatively with your foot and secretly start to wish it would just go away.
Everything is a hassle.
Getting dressed needs Russian doll-like layers.
Walking on the pavement requires training from Torvill and Dean.
Feeling like this is probably one of the main reasons I know I am an adult.
Well, that and the fact I would rather be inside watching The Great Comic Relief Bake Off and crocheting some grannie squares.