I have just read my ‘Winter’ newsletter from last year and laughed out loud.  Not because it was hilarious (which isn’t to say it didn’t have a few wry moments) but because of my irksomely jolly pre-Christmas state of mind – organised, ahead of the game, in good health, enjoying myself…

Bah humbug…or something.  This year the world looks a little darker, and I’m not talking about the weather.  (Although, admittedly, it is very hard not to talk about the weather, given that we appear to be in the thick of a new Ice Age, especially in my rural neck of South East London.  My personal measure for snow-severity is the tower of snow on top of the sundial in the garden, and at the moment - for the third time already this year – it is a veritable pagoda of a good solid 8 inches.)

Back to the darkness.  Things were going so well: I done a little early Christmas shopping, I was on course for the December page-count target I had set myself on my new novel.  Then, one evening a few weeks ago, without any warning at all – when I was alone in the house and just a couple of minutes after I had been standing directly in the firing line – a huge portion of our first floor ceiling decided to come loose from its moorings.  From the noise, and the length of time it went on, I honestly thought the house was being bombed.  When silence fell at last, and I dared to peer out of the kitchen, the devastation had to be seen to be believed: huge pieces of Victorian plasterwork (several big enough to have delivered mortal damage), along with mountains of dust and debris (broken lights, pictures, ornaments) filled our landing, our staircase and our hall.  To say I was shaken, would be an understatement. But these things happen, don’t they?

A few days later when the first deluge of snow came I decided not to be cowed by it and single-handedly kept our drive clear for an entire week, using a lightweight spade which I had bought specifically for the task.  I may be the least robust member of my family (I have two strapping sons), but who wants to sit around waiting for other people do things one can do oneself…?  Ah, such admirable strength, such resolve…until I put my back out.

Even then, I stayed cheerful.  With a dodgy spine and a desk-bound career, I have grown fairly used to such episodes over the years.  Hot baths, analgesics, gentle exercises – I know the ropes for getting myself back on my feet.  The shopping, the word-count – I would be back on top of my pre-Christmas game in a jiffy.

Then I got flu.  And no, I don’t mean a bit of a sniffle and a sore throat.  I mean FLU: bed-ridden, racked with fever, burning, wheezing chest, exploding head, for eight straight days – I wouldn’t wish it on my archest enemy.  

Okay, so a collapsing ceiling, a bad back and flu are all minor adversities in the general scheme of things, but I still feel as if I have been inhabiting something of a battle zone.  That said, small things are now making me very happy: like the joy of not coughing – I feel like a new woman!  And online shopping – who needs to leave one’s bed?  And as I type this I can hear one of the strapping sons shovelling the latest dump of snow from the drive…the scrape of metal on tarmac - who would have thought it could sound so good?