It’s looking increasingly likely that we’re going to have a white Christmas this year, which is bloody typical because I’m working it. While everyone else is tucking into their Christmas diner I shall be sliding around on abandoned streets trying not to crash into parked cars.

Still, working or not, I have to admit that snow at Christmas is still pretty cool. I know the US is currently struggling with it’s own snow apocalypse, and the paltry three or four inches we’ve had over here in the last few days is pretty small fry to the REAL snow others are getting. For example Jon from Daddy Scratches‘ Twitter stream has been full of profanity tinged complaints about the weather:

daddyscratches All of you warm-climate residents who keep lamenting that you’re missing out on the snow: I just spent two hours shoveling. Fuck you.

So yes, I know that in the grand scheme of things we’ve only had a shower. But the UK doesn’t cope well with the snow – we only get it every couple of years or so, and so we haven’t the infrastructure for it. Even a light scattering can have entire roads closed and schools declaring snow days left right and centre.

And I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. The entire country grinding to a stop makes the snow more special somehow. More of an event. Mind you, I could just be saying that because I’ve not had to try and get to work the last few days. I’m going in for a late shift this afternoon so my attitude may well change.

The chickens certainly aren’t particularly impressed. I left the door of their coop open all day yesterday and judging by the lack of footprints outside it not one of them took the plunge and ventured out. All they do is sit huddled in a corner and sulk. Goodness knows how they would be coping if I hadn’t put a solid roof on the run, the wimps. They aren’t going to get very far in their quest for world domination if they can’t cope with a bit of snow.

The other residents of our household however have been having much more fun, staying out until dusk playing:

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1. Their first taste of snow
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Can you spot the difference? I know it’s a tricky one, but if you look really closely you might just see it…

Yes that’s right! In the first photo my hair is blond, and in the second it’s a sort of brown. Well spotted!

The second photo isn’t a particularly good one of course, but seeing as though I was searching for one that showed at least a smattering of head hair I’m surprised I came up with anything at all.

The point is I used to have blond hair, and now I don’t. I’m not actually sure which point in my childhood my hair turned from beautiful shiny blond into drab and dirty brown, but I suspect it was probably at around the same time that I became responsible for my own personal hygiene. Whatever the reason, I turned.

In fact these days I’m showing signs of switching hair colour yet again. I keep finding an alarming number of grey hairs in my beard. But surely that can’t be right? I’m not old yet am I? I must be one of those people who turn grey early, like Steve Martin. Yeah, that’s it. That’s almost cool in a way isn’t it. Isn’t it?

Anyhow…

This is a photo of Evan. Notice his beautiful hair.

But last night Kerry found a solitary traitorous brown strand buried in his mop of golden hair. Say it ain’t so son, say it ain’t so.

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On a different note, and because I can’t be bothered posting twice in one day, I’d like to point you over towards the folks at MyChild.co.uk who have very kindly interviewed me this week as part of their ongoing spotlight on parent bloggers. You can read it here

(N.B. I would just like to point out in their otherwise judicious editing of my answers the people at MyChild substituted the word “computer” with the letters “PC”. I would like to make it clear that I do NOT own a stinking PC. Its Apple all the way baby, Apple all the way)

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Related posts:

1. Perhaps a comb-over is in order
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3. Gaze upon my glorious countenance.

1. Perhaps a comb-over is in order
2. Our daughter, the Emo kid
3. Gaze upon my glorious countenance.

However my life of excitement and peril is sometimes my undoing.

When tending to the chickens in the morning it’s become my habit to slip the eggs I collect into my pockets. This leaves my hands free to lock up the coop and perform any other random jobs that need doing. It has occasionally crossed my mind that this is a practice that may backfire on me at some point in the future, but like I say – I like to live life on the edge.

You can see where this is going can’t you.

Yesterday was a day like any other. I collected the eggs as normal and then pottered around doing my usual jobs. However whilst washing the dishes that afternoon I noticed that I had a large damp patch on my trousers. Assuming that I’d just splashed myself during a bit of overly exuberant scrubbing I just left it, figuring I’d just let it air dry (see, I told you I was a maverick). After fifteen minutes I started to idly wonder why the water didn’t appear to be drying. Half an hour went by and my suspicions were aroused enough for me to stick an exploratory hand in my pocket.

Let me tell you, it wasn’t pleasant.

So off came the trousers, into the washing machine went the wallet, and under the tap went my car keys and a rather eggy £5 note. And in the meantime the chickens (no doubt psychically picking up on my distress) made a dash for freedom, flapping over the garden fence in order to get closer to the house to crow about their victory. Two of them even got onto the roof of my car, an act of disrespect and defiance which is almost Hitchcockian in it’s audacity.

They even crapped up there too, the swine.

So it seems my fine feathered fiends have won this battle, but the war is far from over. Let’s just hope they don’t find an anarchic and irreverent evil genius to lead them or they may one day take over the entire world.

Oh bugger, we’re screwed.

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1. All 11 Dr Whos unite for a special
2. Oh how I wish Mummy would let Daddy keep chickens.
3. I’m not sure calling her a minion is the best idea, but…