Beware Of The Judder Man, My Dear, When The Moon Is Fat.

It hasn't stopped snowing for three days.

Baby Monster woke up imorally early this morning, and thus so did I. Breakfast in bed consisting of gingerbread stars and two satsumas, then up, up and away.

Stocked up on watercolours and play-doh. Who knows how long the weather will last, and I'm not an out-doorsy kinda mother when it's below freezing, thank you very much. Much stains on clothes and furniture before the day was over (note to self for next session: put newspaper down first, muppet!).

Spent the afternoon marvelling at the very small artist I gave birth to and re-reading John Wray's "Canaan's Tongue" (it's like an episode of Deadwood written by a drunken preacher who's listened way too much to the Grateful Dead and should bloody well be compulsory reading for everyone in the whole world).

It's dead quiet now. The snow has muffled the usual sounds of cars and footsteps and children playing. It's almost eerie. What sound there is outside my windows falls flat in the depth of whiteness, there's nothing for it to bounce against, just the still softness of the snow, and it lands in the white folds of winter's lap and dies like a bird.

Winter is all sadness to me. All death and no birth. No wonder people kill themselves.