I have a theory: men don't clear their driveways of snow because it's necessary, but because they want to be play in it. I know if I had responsibilities that kept me inside, I would propose a few fatuous health and safety arguments and be out there shoveling snow. I mention this because, yes, we've ended the year as it began: with heaps of the white stuff. I awoke 4 o'clock Friday to that peculiar glow which accompanies heavy snowfalls; a needless swish of the curtains confirming the forecasters predictions. Walking the dog I found drifts a foot deep buttressing the hedgerows, but 3-4" was the typical covering. Schools broke for Christmas—one day early—and every kid with a sledge was on the hills; The Downs have never been more appropriately named. The closest I saw to a major incident was a delivery truck getting stuck on our road, unable to ascend the compacted snow. There were no power outings or eight hours stuck in the Channel Tunnel here. I'll be honest, I couldn't quite muster February's enthusiasms - the memories have barely melted. But Saturday, the sun blazed out of a white horizon, and every tree retained a stripe of snow down it's northern side—like Jack Frost had been round with squeezy mayonnaise—and the branches were so thickly iced, with an inch of recrystallized snow, and the gaps between them so thin—that the they looked like snapshots of puzzle-book maze - “get to the centre of the tree.”—that, to borrow a phrase, “it were proper Christmassy”. Given how the weather seems a trifle senile these days, I s'pose it's no surprise our White Christmas was delivered early. There's more snow forecast tonight so perhaps, if it stays cold, we can we hang on to the Christmas spirit till Friday. Although the weathermen are hedging there bets as to whether it'll get washed away; still, I don't care what the weatherman says...