When I start my weekly Sunday run, at 9.33, it’s just starting to snow. I presume, though, that it will be nothing more than the lightest, icing-sugar dusting. It hasn’t snowed properly in this corner of north-east Surrey / south-west London for about six years, but down it comes. To run through it is a full-on, sensory, exhilarating experience.
refilled as quickly as I make them footprints in the snow
I watch my footing and slow my pace: I’m sure that pitching up at A & E with a broken ankle would not endear me to the brave, fantastic folk at Kingston Hospital.
on a small allotment:
the bean canes aslant
An hour and a half later, my feet are enjoying the creak through the gorgeous compactness of the snow. Victoria Park, in Surbiton, provides enough space for socially-distanced snowball fights. The pavements on Brighton Road are all but empty.
the one-man band
strums to no one
At home at 11.07, my hands are numbed in my pink and black gloves. I have to warm them on the radiator by the front door before I can get them off and untie the laces on my drenched running shoes.
the only traffic
in endless snowflakes:
Before long, I’m happily re-heating in the bath, the bubbles echoing the snow.
even through the frosted glass snow light