This was the view from my bedroom for the third day running today:
My husband had parked up on the main road and sent me a text when he got to work warning me to stay inside, where it was safe. But the thought of working from home for a second day, worrying about the cost of keeping the heating on, or my health if I didn’t, wasn’t pleasant. I saw an awful (but quite funny) clip on BBC of a little old lady getting flattened by a snowdrift falling off a roof and decided, at 6 months pregnant, I was just as vulnerable. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Half an hour later, stircrazy, I decided it was. Using a golf umbrella for support I gingerly made my way up the drive. I opened the car door, sending a cascade of snow onto the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, pumped up the fans, pressed the button to heat the back window then, slowly and carefully, used the brolly to sweep the 12 inches (honest) of snow off the roof, windscreen and sides. Then I scraped away the ice, taking care to hang on to the wing mirrors and not reach too far. Eventually I got in. It took me precisely four minutes longer than usual to get to my office. What a bloody fuss about nothing.