Even so, I miss the hall full of little wellies and the familiar icy blast from the door as the kids whizz off for a snow ball fight with a neighbour’s cat (okay, so the cat was mainly on the defensive really).
But what am I thinking? I’m recalling the snow days of yore. A house full of snow-bound teenagers is a very different kettle of worms, as I discover at the weekend. Now, the special snow light in the room is tainted by the glow of computer screens.
I look out wistfully at the untouched whiteness.
Then their friend Beth arrives for a spot of Latin. Afterwards, it is dark and she says,
“You know, I fancy making a night snowman.”
This is clearly an interesting proposition and I’m relieved to see Perran and Carenza unpeel themselves from the furniture and tog up.
I’m taking more photos in this last year of having the twins at home and follow them out. But I have forgotten one rule. If you go out there when they’re in mid-snow-frenzy, you’re likely to…
…get hit by a snowball.