Happens so rarely here that it always feels surreal, walking out into a white world, empty streets tracked with footprints. My jacket is a sky blue dot sliding across a monochrome scene. The flakes don't stick to the fabric, but my black jeans are turning white from the bottom up, and I could be disappearing within view of my own doorstep.
For the love of oranges, I hook my hood close and head out, head down, slanting at the same angle that everything is blown, my face freezing, my gloves drenched.
The supermarket is an odd mix of quiet and panic, of people in strange hats walking very carefully, stocking up. But I find what I came out for. Their net is heavy in my hands, like a fishing weight or a mooring buoy and the colour rings out as I cross between the sloshing traffic and look out at all that's visible of a churning sea. And the town is lost in a blur of driving grey and empty buses steam to a halt beside the kerb, change their destination signs to Not in service.
I take off my wet coat and jeans, catch sight of her in the mirror, a reminder of my grandmother, a complexion of sea blown cheeks and bright eyes, remember how she loved oranges and hated it if the weather held her captive.
And all I feel like doing is sitting by the window in a bright of reflected light, eating fruit segments, watching the blackbird clearing out old leaves and twigs that litter the white. Blue and great tits weave a choreography to the seed feeder. A robin sitting alone on a low branch, creates a beautiful thin song.