In typical British fashion, some people have been delighting in being snowed in. Here’s a link to an account of people trapped in Britain’s highest pub, the Tan Hill Inn in North Yorkshire. I can appreciate some of the excitement, having been snowed in a couple of times in our previous house, in the valley between Delph and Denshaw. It’s quite fun so long as it doesn’t last too long and you have sufficient supplies of food, a little thrill of adventure without real danger!
The primary school the two youngest grandchildren attend has declared a snow day. So they are at home, supervised by their older sister, keeping them occupied while their father works from home. Their mother’s school, at a much higher point in Oldham and therefore more vulnerable to snowy weather, has remained open. Of course, it may well be that the headteacher recognises that some of the children, from quite deprived families, will be warmer and better fed in school for the day! So much for the 21st century!
On Saturday, before the snow came, the village centre was full of men with ladders, removing small Christmas trees from above shop doorways and the doors of quite few private houses as well. The fairy lights have been removed from the trees. Christmas is officially over. All that remains is a rather bare, very tall Christmas tree in the square outside one of the pubs.
There is a much smaller but equally bare Christmas tree in the corner of our living room, waiting for someone to take it outside and put it in a corner of the garden, in the hope that it might continue to thrive. After all, it is supposedly a rooted, pot-grown specimen. I had planned for the two remaining elves (the two smallest grandchildren who live 15 minutes away whereas the third elf, Granddaughter Number Three, is now back home in Buckinghamshire) to dismantle the tree for me yesterday. However, weather rather interfered with that plan; it really wasn’t the sort of weather for unnecessary travel. So I removed the lights and baubles myself, took down all the Christmas card and generally returned the room to normal. Downstairs in the basement kitchen there is still a garland of paper chains, waiting for a tall person to take them down.
Recently I’ve been on a bit of a campaign to pay cash for small items of shopping. Our local co-op has been refurbished and now has three self-service checkouts, which only accept card payments. I recognise the convenience for those people who insist on paying by card for everything, even stuff that costs less than 50 pence. But I feel that these self-service tills take jobs from real people. And besides, some of the older folk in the village may not use credit/debit cards or simply prefer to pay cash and have a chat with the assistant. And, final argument, the banks charge shops for card payments, so it’s better to pay cash, especially in small local businesses. Anyway, here’s a link to an article about a man who paid for his beer by card and was charged £55,000 by mistake! Oops!
Talking of mistakes, here’s rather public one that made me smile:
In an appearance on LBC, the one-time Conservative leadership contender was chatting about the importance of border control and suggested Italy as an example.
She told listeners: ‘Italy have reinforced their borders.
‘They’ve built a wall – I went to see that wall, they built a wall on the land border between Italy and Turkey.’”
Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!
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