Hugh was very excited to see the snow on Saturday morning. “It’s snowy! It’s Christmas! We’ll have a tree! And cake! And presents!” Even when we broke it to him that it wasn’t in fact Christmas, but boring old November, and that so far from there being presents men called Brian were busy at that very moment arranging to give away a further hefty slice of Mummy and Daddy’s present-buying capacity to pay interest on loans to pay banks for being stupid, he was still pleased about the snow. And so were we. Snow is very pretty; it’s also completely free and distributed equally upon the heads of rich and poor. Even Sallynoggin looks pretty in the snow, as I noticed when I drove gingerly through it on the way to Cornelscourt to search for emergency welly boots.
Day one snow: Hugh and the boys next door pose with some gigantic snowballs that they made. They are also eating biscuits (and Hugh is wearing my gloves).
Ken talks to another neighbour. That’s her daughter in the furry wellies.
Day two snow: Hugh insists on going outside before breakfast. Note pyjama bottoms:
I like the splash of light on the houses in this one:
Frank emerges. Having been provided with charming new wellies, he adamantly refused to wear them and kept toddling out into the snow in his shoes. It was a day of many changes of socks.
I drove to church on these roads. It was rather frightening. At one point I had to brake by steering into a snowdrift. It wasn’t enormously deep; but there seems to be no grit in Dun Laoghaire and Rathdown.