The Met boys in suits have been promising us heavy snow so long without success that it has been a case of 'Yeah, right' and get out the BBQ set and the deck chairs. However the often threatened wolf is at the doorstep and the BBC blather centre Warning looks almost as dramatic on the ground as on Page 405.
Not too deep yet and not even enough to cover the foot length grass on our back 'lawn'
but traffic has already been brought to a complete stop in the front drive. I had to struggle out through the blizzard on the back 'patio' to feed the wife's feathered friends. It is galling to find Cocky, the biggest beast in the jungle (He looks more like a Tory Grandee every day) gobbling up the food intended for his smaller and more vulnerable cousins. But come the Aviator Flu, he'll get his.

We have had to run our fuel tank right down so as to allow the Tank Fundi to clean it out before it can be filled up again. We may have made a bit of a miscalculation about how long the remaining oil will last-low warning lights now flashing and the central heating has to stay off until we get a fill up so as to have a chance of keeping the Raeburn and the hot water going until a week tomorrow, the earliest that the relief convoy can get through. No heating, no Raeburn and it wont just be the Poobles who have no toes.  ¶ 9:07 AM