This morning I resumed my morning constitutional with a trot along the Sustrans cycle track. Big soft perfect flakes of snow were filling the air creating an oddly hypnotic sensation as I padded through it.
I've found that the least painful way of going running is to do it very first thing before I'm even awake, so it's very easy for my mind to believe it's, at the very least, still asleep. After a while this morning's silent whiteness started to look very familiar as the cycle track passed by fields of sheep. My Granny had a painting on her sitting room wall of a flock of frosty sheep and today it was as if those sheep had stepped out of their elaborate gilt frame.
The other-worldly sensation was increased by the fact that I'd started listening to my new talking book, A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute. The first bit is told from the point of view of family solicitor Noel Strachan. The description of the loyal lawyer dealing with the estate of a long-term client from his office with its roaring fire put me fondly in mind of my Dad's office.
I know there's a lot to be said for being in the moment, but when I'm running around on a chilly morning I find it infinitely preferable to be somewhere else and today it was Granny's sitting room and Dad's office.
Then on the way back I found this chap flat out with a couple of his equally dead friends. Frosted frog, anyone?
