Snow

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

One of my greatest weaknesses is that I hate to admit to weaknesses. I have a terrible Look, Ma, no hands, tendency. Look at me, being fine. I loathe pity. I sometimes get actually cross if someone (mostly my poor mother) says they are worrying about me. I think I find it faintly patronising, as if I'm such an eedjit I can't run my own life.

This relentless tendency goes along with the endless counting of the blessings. Look, look: I have Scotland, and opposable thumbs, and a mostly functioning brain, and democracy, and everything. (The inevitable inference I draw from this, in the irrational part of my brain, is that I may never complain about anything. Because I have All This.)

Add in my terror of being a bore, and you get a perfect storm.

This is occasionally exacerbated by the act of blogging. No one wants to read about some dreary Minnie Moaner. You want sunshine and happy thoughts. Surely?

But there are some times when I have to admit that I am having a five star, ocean-going, shitty day. Even though I have heat and light and running water, I cannot summon my inner Pollyanna. I feel out of sorts, under the weather, scratchy and grumpy.

I think I always get a bit unsettled when I have been away for a while. After the initial symphony of joy and excitement to be back among my hills, I get the falling realisation of the domestic and administrative tasks of life; the work to be done; the emails to be sent; the letters to be written. Then I feel disorganised and cross and wish I were one of the shiny, efficient people.

It's not the end of the world. It's not front page news. It will be better tomorrow, because it always is. I almost thought of not mentioning it, and just putting up a Pigeon photograph for your delight. But there is some inner drive for authenticity which cannot be staunched. You are my Dear Readers, and you must have the truth.

And I think I hope, in my secret heart, that you will rise up in chorus, and say: oh, oh, me too. It's such a strange thing, as if I am asking permission not to be gleaming every damn day. (That admission does feel like a step too far, it is so mad, and I am tempted to delete, delete.) But there; the kindness of strangers is, I think, what this novel medium is all about.

 

Photographs of the day. The first scatter of snow fell. The Pigeon was highly delighted, as there is nothing she loves more. She eats it, and jumps about in it, and just looks too pleased for anything.

Off goes the old lady, in seventh heaven:

Happy snow pose:

Ridiculously beautiful close-up:

Hill:

And now I am stumping off to make some chicken soup, which really is my only answer.