We’re out of here for a week or two. May it please be sunny by the time we get back?

In fact, there are little crocus bulbs poking their way up in the garden. They will probably come in to flower just as we leave for our trip to Thailand. That’s right, if the sun won’t come to us, we’re going to have to go and find the sun.

It was lovely to watch, but then I noticed poor old dad. He stood, head in hands, waiting for the ball to be kicked. Then he watched it trickle away to his left. With a speed which must have seemed excruciatingly slow to the little boy, he shambled over to the ball. Delivering it back to the eager face, wrapped up in plenty of layers; he began the process all over again.

Poor dad flinched every time he was called, and I would make a cliched guess that his slow Sunday morning game was directly related to a Saturday afternoon spent watching the six nations with beer and a bag of crisps in hand.

Luckily, I was feeling fine, although I enjoyed my Saturday afternoon in the pub watching the rugby. It made a change to watch a big sporting match in the afternoon, rather than at 9am. It was always fun to watch football or rugby over breakfast in Chicago, but there is something very comforting about watching after lunch, and about being able to phone people in the same time zone to rehash the match. Not that that would be any comfort to hangover dad.

As I walked to the shops this afternoon, I realised that these boots are ten years old this month. I bought them in January of 1999 to take with me for a six month spell in the Slovak Republic. I used them there, walking in thick cold snow on pavements in the capital, Bratislava, and wore them on various trains travelling around Central Europe. They were too heavy to pack in my bag, so they had to be worn.

Then they went into hibernation for a while. They just had little trips over the hills in Derbyshire. Occasionally they took some fresh air in rural Devon, or on a beach in Bournemouth.

Three years in Chicago gave them more snow to trudge through. It’s when the initial snow melts and it gets sludgy or icy that they come into their own. And yesterday, when the pavements were resembling sheet ice they were a lot safer than any other footwear. I had a few wobbles, but I got through the day unscathed, if a little cold-footed.

It’s quite nice to recall that my trusty boots have been with me through some pretty interesting travels. This month London, next month…

It's so pretty. Why would no one want to eat here?

Which is why I was a little bit offended when the fancy breakfast I made on Monday morning wasn’t touched by those invited. In fact, in that cliched nightmare of party-givers everywhere, no one even showed up.

If you stand in the snow, fiddling with bits of string, nut feeders, and expensive-looking fat balls, then someone should at least turn up. If you go out in your boots and fleece to crack the ice and provide water, someone should offer up a song of thanks surely?

No one, not a single sparrow, came to visit the bird table for the next two days.

I listened to an ‘expert’ on the radio last week talking about what you should feed the birds, how, where, and when. His most important point was that once you start you should keep going regularly as the birds start to depend on you. So, we cleared a path across the patio and I brushed several inches of snow off the table. Do you think someone is offering a better choice next door?

The next thing you know, there I am driving home from the back of beyond with snow clouds gathering.

When we arrived in London real snow had fallen. Real. Snow. Lots of powdery white flakes not just sprinkled on the driveway but white over. By the time we dragged ourselves out of bed this morning, the bird table was piled high with the white stuff. By the time I’d got from the front of the flat to the back, the man of the house was in his boots and out playing in the snow like a ten year old.

London is a whole new town in this unheard of snow. With trains and buses unable to run, things are incredibly quiet. The noises which do float into our flat aren’t train rumbling on track but squeals from grown adults throwing snowballs at each other. There are people walking everywhere; some in woolly hats, and some in entirely inappropriate footwear.

It looks as though there’s plenty of snow still being held up in the sky. It all looks very foreboding yet strangely pretty from my warm living room. The towels are relegated back to the drying rack in the spare room for a little while longer. Me and my big mouth seemed to have fetched a half ton of snow down from the big blue yonder. Winter, it seems, is having the last laugh round here.

Still, it was great to have a dryer which dried things. Novel.

Here, however, I have a washing line. A real life, bona fide, washing line, which we bought at the start of what has seemed a particularly cold, wet winter. We only used it a few times before it was back to inside airers and radiators.

And whilst other people might be out looking for snowdrops, or the appearance of green shoots from their sleepy bulbs, yesterday, for me, the early herald of the possibility of spring was putting the washing on the line.

It may not have dried, and it may not be possible to put the washing out tomorrow. But it’ll do.

Anyone who has been to IKEA will be well aware of the psychological condition that takes hold the minute you step through the door. Did I come to measure up a sofa-bed and a book case and to pick up a new closet organiser? I did? Well you can bet I will reach the checkout with a trolley full of soft furnishings, a few indescribable somethings without which my kitchen will not be complete, a new glass vase to add to my collection, and one or two random articles which I wasn’t even aware existed three hours earlier.

I never pick up one of those ubiquitous yellow bags straight away. I fool myself that I’m just browsing; that I can carry one or two trinkets, if they should take my fancy.

After the lamp, bulbs, and cushion covers are collected to my person, I give up and take a bag. Then, downstairs in the Market Hall, IKEA madness sets in, and I need a trolley to take care of the new rug, new inserts for the new cushions, a new rug gripper for the new rug, new food storage jars, a new plant pot…….

Still, at least all my purchases were there; on the shop floor. At least none of my purchases had to be waited for; waited forty-five minutes for, to be precise. Believe me, there are people still shopping in IKEA at 9:30pm. There are still people still queuing in IKEA at 9:40pm. There are still people eating hot dogs, french fries and fizzy drinks in IKEA at 10pm.

Oh yeah. That last one was only us.