To snow or not to snow

I had a particularly horrible migraine yesterday, allied to a trip to the hypnotherapist which left me in agony and in tears for most of the day.  Always a nice way to spend a freezing Monday in December.  We will draw a veil.

Today the weathermen threaten snow across the Midlands.  I do not believe them, and the children are so cynical they didn’t even bother to look out of the window when I announced it, but it is likely to happen because Oscar and Jason have gone on a road trip.  In the Floosy.  I am trying not to worry too much, but it is not going well.  The worrying, not the road trip.  Although by all accounts that isn’t going brilliantly either.  For some reason Oscar has decided that he does not want to go with Jason, he wants to stay with me.  This is the only time in living memory that he has ever decided that my company is preferable to that of his father, particularly when his time is spent zooming about in a fast car.   

 He cannot stay with me because I am going to the theatre with the girls tomorrow, in Birmingham, with a friend and her children, and it will take all day, and Oscar is too small.  Jason thought the road trip would be a brilliant treat for him, and distract him from something else he is missing out on.  Unfortunately it is not working.  They have only been gone an hour and they have called once already because Oscar wanted to tell me how sad he is. 

They are going to Ascot to visit a school friend of Jason’s who now lives in Thailand and who is only here for the holidays. It is Jason’s only chance to see him, so I should not be so grumpy that he is gone, but I am.  So there.

And I am now worrying about our trip to Brum tomorrow.  In theory all should be well.  In practice I dread the thought of being snowed in at Birmingham New Street, which is a hellish station of Dantean proportions and is cold, draughty and miserable at the best of times.  I am making sure I take my credit card, so if necessary I shall use it to scoop out a tunnel to the nearest five star hotel.

We have spent most of the day doing crafts.  I am so sick of crafts I cannot tell you.  I would like at least a week where I no longer have to scrub daubs of acrylic paint off of the kitchen table, and this afternoon, most memorably, out of my cup of tea.  I still haven’t managed to get round to threading all the salt dough decorations yet, and now I have four hundred small wooden Swedish people in red felt witches hats sitting around waiting their turn.  It’s bad when your craft items start forming an orderly queue.

I may have to go and eat more Quality Streets.  I have put on three pounds this week, all chocolate based.  Still, I am looking at it as adding a vital layer of fat should we actually be snowed in.  Those three pounds may make all the difference when I am living off it, waiting for the St. Bernard.

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