January. Wake to the white astonishment of snow that fell silently while we dreamed and now everything outside is higher up, smothered and joined together into one white mass that glows faintly violet in the shadows… and, of course, the power is out and the skylights thickly blanketed so that indoors is suddenly grey and grimy-looking.

The children, on the other hand, are incandescent: No school! We can cook spaghetti on the woodstove again! Can we have candles? Can we go out NOW?

Search for the waterproof mittens, the hats, ski pants and snow boots. Squeeze the much-grown children into them. Let them out, squealing, into the whiteness, noting that the entire landscape has now vanished. The sky blends seamlessly into the middle ground and the air is thick with new flakes begging to be caught and melted on the tongue, though it is not long before my two abandon that and begin to eat the New World in huge handfuls (In the genuinely cold parts of Canada, this would not be advisable, but here we are only talking a few degrees below).

         Prise off boots. Get out the wind-up radio. Light the stoves. Rule out the selfishness of taking a shower. Where did we store the snow shovel? The sledge? Why did I never think to buy a manual coffee grinder? Why are there so many left-handed gloves? Are all these clothes really necessary? Finally, on emerging, I see a huge drift blocking the way to the tool shed, and the two kids stuck in, tunnelling with their hands.

         ‘Mummy!’ They shriek, ‘This is the Hole of Happiness!’ I, hearing Whole, stagger eagerly to find shovels so that it can be made bigger still.