I wonder if being a child of 1947 makes a difference. I was born during March of that year,one of the worst winters up until now. I have just started the faithful Volvo, idle after our week away in the metropolis.It is chugging away on the drive . Tomorrows trip to hospital with aged parent might not happen, but it could as I am ready. I know that if they cancel she will want a trip to the Beverley Tesco store. She ,and all of us can get cabin fever if stuck indoors too long. They have just started to grit the Filey roads, and men are clearing the pavements as write, 12 days after the first snow and ice When I say I love it, I don't mean the ice on the pavements and the danger on the roads. I love the clouds, the sky, the snow itself, the warmth of my home, the excuse to talk to strangers, the way the light is different and the common bond which wraps around each of us.
The gritter above has a snowplough at the front. Being behind it in the National Express Coach on Garrowby Hill was as good as Hull Fair . It was out of my control, the bus, the gritter and the decision making. It is the dilemmas which make inclement weather stressful. I love the phonecall which says 'your meeting has been cancelled'. I do not have to agonize and ponder,cogitate and plan. It is all done for me.