Britain is paralysed by some snow, but here in Glasgow it’s slush so I feel quite entitled to exclaim ‘crisis? What crisis?’ when stories of others’ snowy inconveniences are broadcast to the nation.
Our trouble last night was not snow but an errant burglar alarm which, at 2 a.m. and in an ‘unset’ condition, took a hissy fit at a power surge and proceeded to screech at intervals irregular enough to force me to dance attendance , punching in the code with increasing velocity. Were I wearing one, however, I would doff my hat to the alarm company who sent out an engineer, despite the weather. Since I couldn’t leave the alarm box even for a second lest it begin its wailings all over again, I greeted him wearing a silk nightdress, an old cardigan, a stripey scarf and mismatching gumboot socks knitted by somebody who had clearly never seen a foot. He took one look, refused a cup of tea, beat the alarm into shape quick quick quick then scarpered. Was it the silk nightdress? Was it the red sock or the blue? We shall never know.
I find I’m deep into Chaucer with my redheaded heroine. I don’t know about her, but I’m having a lovely time.