Clean snow covers up many a weed. The ground is slippery, and stubbly. I have to open the car from the other side as the lock has frozen. Breath can be seen as mist upon the air. Hypnotic swirling patterns of dots rush towards me as I drive. Suddenly the other side of the road is a long way away, and I wish I could work from home. The cats tread gingerly in the back garden, unsure of putting each paw down.

It's been so so long since winter came and stayed. Perhaps I'm not out there with the children building snowmen, but I love the change that winter brings. Each season has its own magic, its own value.

My mind drifts. I like Vivaldi's "Four Seasons". And I like Mucha's "Four Seasons" too.