Frost

The snow at my parents' lay thick, fell thickly, stuck, troubled. The drive to the train station was slow-motion, at times the car described the movement of a curling-stone, perpendicular, gliding towards cars that had themselves slipped off the road. My father, fearless arctic explorer, was forced to park at the bottom of the home-hill and walk through the blanketing slough. In London, we have frost: decorative, charming, companionable.

Antechristmas

It's all snowy and lovely, and Clare and I are at my parents'. Christmas was yesterday, because we run our own calendar; we are a carefree people, unfettered by the yokes of a society unbending. The birds are well fed, outside, and we are well fed inside, on birds, and in the park, the children play, and so on and on: it is winter.