The Snowman

Overnight the world outside my window turns into a snow-globe and I wake to see thick, fluffy flakes swirling from a heavy woollen sky, covering the graveyard in a deep white blanket and muffling everything in a quiet stillness.

The house is silent. The builders have stopped work for the weekend and I pick my way through the dust and debris to put the kettle on. All the mugs are dirty and piled up in the sink, its plughole blocked by a pile of old teabags, some still attached to their spoons. For some reason I’m reminded of the time I went to Pompeii and saw a city frozen in time after the volcano eruption. Not that my cottage is a Roman city, but finding anything does involve something akin to an archaeological dig.

Donning rubber gloves, I clear up as best I can, then feed Harry and let him outside. Despite his arthritis, Harry likes to charge full pelt into the garden every morning to chase his nemesis, the grey squirrel who lives in the old apple tree and likes to taunt him. Only this morning, when he dives out of the back door, he dives head-first into a snowdrift, before reappearing with two large white eyebrows, looking completely bemused.

Meanwhile I check my bird feeder; it’s still untouched. I filled it up and followed all of Valentine’s instructions, hanging it from the large silver birch, with the intention of watching the birds from the window, except no birds have come. Not a single one. Concerned, I told Valentine when I passed by his bungalow a few days ago. Maybe I was doing something wrong? Perhaps I’d hung it in the wrong place? Maybe it was too high or not high enough? Perhaps I’d used the wrong birdseed?

But he told me not to worry. ‘Just be patient. It’ll happen. Give it time.’

After a few hours the snow finally stops falling, and Harry and I venture out for our walk to discover the village and surrounding landscape have been transformed into a winter wonderland, with glittering white fields, bright sunshine and a spotless blue sky. Fresh air fills our lungs and the views are so clear you can see for miles. Bundled up against the cold, we do our usual route along the footpath that runs alongside the edge of the fields. Normally they’re filled with cows and sheep grazing, but they must have been taken in by the farmers to shelter inside the barns, as today the fields are bursting with local children sledging, their shrieks of delight and laughter piercing the frozen air.

We stop for a while to watch them, Harry straining at his lead and barking as they whizz past on bright plastic trays, as if wanting to join them. I don’t blame him. They’re all having so much fun. Fun – God, how I’ve missed that. The concept gets a little lost when you’re trying to rebuild your life, buried underneath all the other practical stuff. I let Harry off the lead and play fetch with him, throwing his ball gently so as not to overtire him. And yet what’s more important than having fun?