Friday, 18 January 2013
Soft white flakes fall from the sky overnight. By morning, the hills are blanketed by snow. Gearing up to battle my way into work, I am relieved when my employer rings to tell me to stay at home. The roads are too bad, snow still falls thickly and even if I manage to get there, it is likely I'd be unable to get home safely.
Donning many layers of clothing, shuffling like an old woman to avoid slipping on the icy path, I feed and water the chickens and Spike the gander. The chickens are reluctant to leave the shelter of their house, and Spike shouts in outrage at the sight of all that snow, for which he seems certain I am in some way to blame. The friendly robin by the back door, bold and cheeky, reminds me to add extra food to the bird table. Though my fingers are painfully cold, I make two trips out to the woodpile for extra firewood. Then I can light the woodburning stove and thaw myself out.
The world has a strangely muffled quality today, I feel a sense of peaceful isolation. Few cars crawl up or down the hill. The snow continues to fall; sometimes thick flurries, sometimes small, scattered flakes. My footprints from the morning chores soon fill and are smoothed away.
Tonight the cats and I snuggle around the stove, grateful for its comforting, glowing warmth. I have plenty of food and firewood. I have my new computer to play with. I have nowhere I need to go, nothing I need to do. It could be a lot worse.