predictive text

Winter draws out a familiar daily routine. Get up, empty the ash pan, fire the stove, feed the dogs and cats, empty the ash, compost bucket and pee container on the compost heap, bring in wood for burning for the day, breakfast, chop more wood, check any emails, waste 5 minutes on what the world has to say. All very predictable. So when snow arrives it is welcoming. The snowman contest, won by Jana thanks largely to the saucepan hat. The sight of our neighbour's grandson force his patched up ford mondeo estate up our hill at his fifth attempt of wheel-spinning. But perfect of all is the excuse of not being able to go anywhere and survive on what is available. And currently not have to bother to think about a backward and silly referendum this country's church is sponsoring right now because the farmer still hasn't cleared the snow on our road with his snow plough. 
But when the sun shines or even more spectacularly when the full moon glows on the snowy surface, the crystals reflect like a million diamonds. It's not worth going anywhere else.
Whether the cold snap or the previously luke warm winter has caused it we are not sure, but the black splodgy pumpkin and marrow harvest in the cellar is more likely to finish on the compost heap than the dinner plate now. A last pumpkin crescendo meal consisting of pumpkin curry, pumpkin and apple cake and some slightly less desirable marrow (and fruit juice added) wine spread over three lunches may mark the beginning to buy in some vegetable from the supermarket again. At least for the closing months of winter.