Snow in The Grove a few days ago, is today just a memory. So rare has been snow in recent years, that it has the quality of a childhood memory. As I survey the sodden grass in the grey light this afternoon, it is one of those memories, which seem to be magical and hard to believe
In the shop which sells electronic accessories, I hear a woman say to a man. "Look a crossword solver! You should give it to your mother." Says the man: "God, she'd never use it." And I think to myself, I don't blame her. I speculate on the possibility of a jigsaw puzzle completer. An assistant in the shop meanwhile sees me writing in my notebook. He thinks that I am checking out his stock. "Are you alright, sir?" He says.
At the edge of The Common, the remains of three big snowmen watch the traffic pass. They are no more than three mounds of snow but there is a sense of brotherhood about them as though they are offering each other mutual support in difficult times.