21st January 2013

Winter has finally arrived with a vengeance, and, true to form, the entire country has ground to a halt. The media is once again overflowing with “scenic” snow photographs (all suspiciously similar) and endless clips of skidding cars performing involuntary pirouettes.

Jamie has been making the most of it with his snowboard, while the Rothwell boys have been busily acquiring a fine collection of frozen fingers and toes. I’ve joined in the fun too; my bike now feels at home off-road. That said, today I discovered that even my chunky tyres have their limits. Attempting to climb an embankment, I ended up in a spectacularly uncontrolled slalom, finishing the manoeuvre flat on my backside with a frosty cushion beneath me. Dignity: 0. Snow: 1.

Sarah braved the icy conditions on Sunday to attend a ‘Camp America’ exhibition in Manchester. She sensibly detoured via Leeds to avoid the Pennines and, after what sounded like an epic trek worthy of Shackleton, returned safely, if somewhat shattered.

Nan, meanwhile, has adopted the far more sensible approach of not leaving her flat at all. During today’s visit, she calmly showed me a finger bent at an angle nature never intended. She’d injured it during a tumble at Josie’s, but hadn’t bothered to mention it until now. “Doesn’t hurt,” she insisted. Improvisation was required, so I splinted it with half a cotton bud and strict instructions not to remove it. I suspect a stretched tendon and a slow recovery. Whether my makeshift handiwork survives Nan’s stubbornness remains to be seen.

On a lighter note, the bird table has been a hive of activity. Alongside our regular robin and pigeons, we’ve been graced by a magnificent cock pheasant, strutting about in all his colourful finery as though auditioning for a Christmas card. With the forecast promising more icy conditions until at least next weekend, I expect the wildlife will remain our most appreciative (and best dressed) visitors.