White Christmas

It had been the perfect December day - cold and crisp with the frosted trees sparkling in the light of the low winter sun. The children and I had spent the morning in the park skidding and sliding along the icy paths, chasing each other (and the ducks) round the lake, and rolling around in the soft powdery snow from last night’s heavy snowfall which had closed the school.

With the roads through the village impassable, Sue had decided to work from home, and had insisted that we go to the park and let her get on in peace and quiet.

After lunch, I’d played with the children in the garden while Sue did some baking. The smells wafting through the kitchen window made my mouth water at the prospect of some tasty treats to come.

Then, as the sun was setting in a blaze of fiery reds and oranges, promising another fine and fun-filled day tomorrow, it was back indoors for a bath and dinner.

After the children had gone to bed, Sue and I snuggled up together on the sofa in front of the fire dozing and watching TV.

I had hoped for a mince pie during the evening but was told a firm ‘No! Those are for Christmas Eve’.

But at least it was now time for bed, and I was looking forward to cuddling up with Sue in bed…

Until, that is, she totally broke the spell. ‘Now, Ben, you know you’re not allowed upstairs – get back in your basket.’

I don’t know, after entertaining the kids all day – there’s just no pleasing some humans!