Snowing on Sunday

After spending the greater part of last night stood in a good friend’s kitchen drinking beer and telling stories, we arrived home a little before midnight, and checked through the children’s rugby kit in preparation for this morning – a long trip across the county to play a far flung team.

We woke a little after seven, looked from the bedroom window, and realised immediately that all plans would be cancelled. A white blanket had fallen across everything in sight, and was still falling steadily from the sky. I slipped out of bed, pulled clothes on, and tiptoed into our youngest’s bedroom.

“The Elf has brought something back from the North Pole”

She woke immediately and ripped her bedroom curtains open before whispering “IT’S SNOWING!” in the most excited stage whisper I’ve heard in quite some time.

The next fifteen minutes brought absolute mayhem to the house – with children running in all directions in search of warm clothes, boots, gloves, and woolly hats. I took photos of them disappearing out onto the green our house nestles in the corner of before wandering back into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea.

Dammit. No milk.

Ten minutes later, after wrapped myself up like a rather pathetic Inuit explorer, I trudged out in search of bread and milk. Across the green I spotted a gaggle of people in the falling snow, chasing after each other while a large black labrador bounded back and forth. The dog is owned by a good friend – as I grew closer I squinted through the snow and spotted her face peeking between a hat and scarf. She has the naughtiest grin of anybody I know.

After catching up with each other and perhaps throwing one or two snowballs, I continued on my journey, with a cheerful voice calling out behind.

“We’ll send a search party if you don’t return soon!”

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