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What is about snow that gets us into such a hyper-ventilating state of euphoria? That brings out the child in us, urges us to believe that the white, white, oh-so-white substance around us has transformed our world into a fairy tale of which we are now a part.
Or at least suspends all. Suspends disbelief. When I was on the cross-country train earlier today, staring out of the window at the whitewashed fields, I started musing, as dreamers like me tend to do when travelling by train. And, duly inspired by the unexpected sheathes of Arctic weather that have so excited and alarmed the entire British Isles, these were my thoughts and memories.
Snow memories, I call them. It was in the snow that I met my first love — a young, dashing Benedictine monk who was promoted to the role of male protagonist in my novel, For Some We Loved. I was seventeen and had just fallen in love. With him, the gorgeous, black-robed monk walking beside me. In the snow. Kind of. An expired love. Hubby Number One, on his way out. Not ever. It did, obviously. Christmas Eve. Hubby staying with me and the children for the Christmas holidays.
Last time ever, as it turned out. The sudden urge to go out on a walk. On my own. Let hubby babysit. At least let him do that much. Let me be free for an hour. In the sad, ugly drizzle, to match my sad, ugly mood.
Neither the drizzle, nor my mood. The drizzle soon turned to sleet, and then — oh joy! Huge, chunky flakes of it, tumbling down in huge, chunky swathes, covering the pavements, the rooftops, the trees, the parked cars, everything , in that glorious, lush, white icing that so lifts the human heart. I stand still in the milky dark for several moments, face turned up at the falling snow, blinking at the darling flakes.