It’s getting ridiculous. I have now done every possible thing there is to do in a cold climate. Roasted chickens. Perfected gravy. Sledded down a snowy hill clutching a small German child. Been mildly disturbed by a Christmas tree hung with axe handles. Built a snowman. Visited a grandmother. Had my snowman-making skills disparaged by a small German child. Stewed Bramley apples. Watched The Wire, Mesrine and Zoolander. Boiled smoked pork hock with beans. Eaten my own body weight in porridge. Sat in too many hot baths. Read Wolf Hall. Had a traumatic woolly-sock related accident, skidding down a wooden staircase on my backside and taking out a banister at the bottom (really not a nice way to wake up). Made beef stew, lamb stew and chicken noodle soup. Lovingly attended to a swine flu victim. Skidded down icy footpaths. Eaten too many fry-ups, and too much marzipan.
And I’m now at a standstill. It’s no longer funny. It’s frankly at the point where, if I didn’t have a living to earn, I would lie down in bed, pull the blankets over my head and emerge in three months. I am weary of stew, doorstop novels and typing in fingerless gloves. Please, enough already, just give me a sunny beach, a green cordial and a Marian Keyes novel (except that she has succumbed to depression herself according to her website; I do hope she is feeling better soon). Continue reading