The promised snow. And a bit more nostalgia.

The weathermen promised us snow. We woke up to this.

I went walkabout in the snow earlier this morning. A quite surprising number of people asked me, with a wry grin, “Are you not running this morning?” Such jokers! 

As a matter of fact, just walking was difficult. Walking in fresh snow is like walking on sand. Sand doesn’t squeak under your boots as fresh snow does though. In the wooded areas trees that you can usually walk under without problem - well, someone my fairly average height can walk under them with impunity - were weighed down with snow, causing quite a lot of ducking and dodging.

People with children were out and about with sledges. Some adults were busily clearing snow from their drives, presumably so that if necessary they can get their cars out. Probably safer to stay at home, I should think. Nobody seemed to be clearing the pavements in front of their houses though. 

The sloping approach to the door of the co-op had been rather inexpertly cleared, or maybe it was just the result of lots of people tramping up and down the ramp, leaving a slushy surface in their wake which risks turning into an ice rink if left to itself.

Now for a bit more nostalgia. 

Recently Michael Rosen wrote this article for the Guardian, reminiscing about his childhood home. I never got round to commenting on it at the time as other things caught my attention. 

Yesterday I came across this set of letters in response to his original article. His nostalgia provoked a similar nostalgia in all sorts of people. 

Like Michael Rosen, I can visualise my childhood home; I could probably draw a floor plan even now. When he wrote about “a corridor that my brother and I used for racing Dinky toy cars”, i was reminded of a similar corridor-like in our house. My father had covered the floor of that hallway and the kitchen and dining room connected to it with Marley floor tiles, the latest thing for modern young families. My mother polished them. My sister and I “skated” up and down the corridor in our socks! 

Many letter writers commented that, like Michael Rosen, they still remembered their childhood home phone number. We didn’t have a telephone until after I had left home to go to university. (I had to be sure to write a weekly letter home to reassure my parents that I was still alive and well!) but I do remember my mother’s “divi”, short for “dividend”, number for the co-op - 9232. If I was sent to the local co-op store to buy some forgotten items, I had to give that number so that my mother received her dividend as a co-op member. No store cards with points to collect in those days. The shop assistant noted down the amount spent and eventually the percentage dividend amounted to a sum worth spending in the store. Those were the days! 

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!