In the middle of August, my sons and I dig out some old plastic pots and set off blackberrying in earnest. As we do our bramble rounds, the first twinges of dread invade my mind. The horse chestnuts are on the turn and instead of looking forward to the earthy beauty of autumn, I fast forward to the grey cold of winter that might be a lot closer than I think.
In my defense, last winter was the harshest in my memory. Effectively caught unawares, I thought that my move from a tiny village to the urban defenses of a tiny town would protect me somewhat from the misery of icebound roads and the unavoidable cold that comes from the inhibiting costs of heating oil – the only option in very rural areas.
A week of snow before Christmas – unusual but not unheard of. Another week of snow before Christmas – not only unusual but just plain hazardous. Fresh snow on frozen slush. Ice sheets disguised as a smattering of pretty snow crystals. Even that urban giant of London was arrested in its daily grind. And my brand new combination boiler – one of the first on our road of 1960’s housing gems – broke not once, not twice, not even an embarrassing three times. I had to call out the plumber no less than 7 times.
Whilst my neighbours were tucked up in bed, their noisy old back boilers burning cheerfully away , there I was, at 7 am, in a dressing gown, coat, hat and wellies, doing battle with minus 8 degree temperatures and some obstinately frozen pipes. Two or three kettles of boiling water over the external pipes had around a 50% chance of success. Otherwise we had to revert to the penguin method. The rather ugly electric fireplace I picked up with my last pennies to cover the gaping hole in the lounge chimney breast and strategically placed electric fires got us through the worst of it. Those and some serious layering.
So, despite a glorious Indian summer and a sweltering 30 degree welcome to October, I’m not taking any chances this year. The cosytoes ‘pipe-muff’ that we created for our fussy friends – the outdoor pipes – are going on next weekend. The garden furniture is already tucked up for the winter. The boots, winter coats and scarves etc. are to hand and my alarm clock is going to be set 15 minutes earlier to allow for the wrapping-up-of-children palava. Re-stocking anti-freeze is a top priority. I have invested in a sleeping bag for the baby’s buggy and I am going to kick modern fashion sense out into the cold in my determined pursuit of thermal vests for the whole family.
And I know which car we’ll be using too. My faithful old Picasso. She might be old, she might be ugly and she might have 140,000 miles on the clock, but she can take on snow far better than my husband’s only slightly younger but infinitely more powerful Nissan. I know that to my cost when last December, pregnant with T, I braved minus 13 degrees to inch my way to Cambridge for my first scan. Desperate to know that all was well, having lost two before, I packed a snow shovel, my wellies and a duvet in case of more snow, determined to hear that heart beat. I made it all the way to my town’s high street when I got stuck trying to do a hill-start on ice. Somehow, with the aid of a snow shovel and the glares of multiple red-nosed drivers I managed to get moving. I won’t be trying that again.
It was worth it, though, for that first glimpse of our little T.
As for the school run – I am seriously contemplating an ice hack. We walk to school, but never has half a mile seemed more arduous than when it is half a mile of pavements covered in already compacted snow. Frozen over and then re-compacted by the endless pounding feet of the pedestrian school commute, it’s like an ice rink made out of lumpy gravy. Trying to support a child with each hand and pretend that you somehow have preternatural balancing skills is just one more parental challenge. At least this winter I won’t be in the first trimester of pregnancy and worrying about that too. I’ll just have a buggy and two small children to contend with instead. I wonder, do they do snow tyres for buggies?
sophiahc 