In the Bleak Midwinter

It's the wrong sort of snow.

This is the kind of snow that we had when I was a child. This isn't modern snow. Modern snow dribbles down from the sky in a scared and tentative manner and then melts.

Today we have the kind of snow that I remember from years ago, drifting down from the sky in fluffiness, like an explosion in a pillow factory. It makes everything different.

It's silent, and a bit spooky. Last night, leaning out of the bedroom window, I took this photo of the branches outside. No wonder people were scared of the dark if this is the kind of thing they used to see in the Olden Days.

This morning, the view of our garden, looking towards our mother's house, looked a bit cosier:

So, all that singing about I'm dreaming of a white Christmas has finally paid off, and we're finally going to get one. And do we like it? - - er - - no. When it comes to snow, I think I prefer the melting kind.

And, actually, if nobody minds, I think I'll have a summer morning on Lake Como, Italy, instead.

Aaaaah! That's better.