March SNOW & ‘A Tribute to Pricks in Range Rovers’

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March 23, 2013 by hattersleysmith

Yorkshire Snow 3

Dozily climbing into the curtained dark I peek out of the window to find SNOW!  Drifts and drifts of white clouding over the hills, roads and trees, throwable, jumpable, crunchable SNOW!  Pulled between the warm glow of a fireside bout of Shelley and a MONSTER SLEDGING SESSION I bounce around in excitement for a good five minutes before morphing into my seven-year old self, launching myself at my parents, demanding snowmen and fights and igloos and crumpets and hot chocolate, running downstairs in a frenzy of SNOWdom, plunging into the sharp, icy snow crystals which bite stinging into my cheeks, cold sucking the life from my bare toes and my returning breath ice-cubing my lungs.

I’ve always loved SNOW, playing in the surrounding fields, battling against my siblings with barricades and lax sticks, getting ‘snowed-in’ and skiving school, sledging and the inevitable steaming cups of chocolate and buttery Marmite crumpets.  Nom.  But today, post-hyperness, I began to feel a twinge of irritation.  What was The Big Guy thinking?  This time last year we were stripping off, revising in bikinis and contemplating water fights…

Conceding to the elements and making a hasty retreat I return to bed.  However, before I can bear to finish off my cup of tea and unsnuggle myself from duvet, blanket and pillow my monumental prick of a father has jumped into his Range Rover to jeer at the non-4x4ers skidding across country roads, wedged in ditches and discarded on hills.




‘Mont Blanc’, ‘Ozymandias’ and half way through ‘A Defence of Poetry’ later and I find myself unceremoniously debunking, stuffing slippered feet into my brother’s wellies and bundling, pyjamaed, into Mum’s Discovery on a rescue mission.  Dad’s managed to get his car stuck in a snow drift down a tiny country track in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales.  Bombing along ungritted roads I feel like we should have a siren and tyre chains and by the time we finally slide our way to meet a flustered Dad and Brother we realise we’ve probably made a horrible mistake and envision ourselves stranded, hungry, battered, buried alive with no hot-chocolate or, significantly, gloves…

Yorkshire Snow

What follows is a film tribute to the events of the last few hours of my life…

So we got it out, thoroughly deserving the pub lunch and subsequent fireside Yorkshire Tea.

Yorkshire 4



I was going to go sledging.  I was going to make a snowman.  I was going to return, soaking and shivering, for a long steamy bath.  Instead, I’ve decided, probably like the rest of the nation, that I’m simply bored of snow and it’s the wrong time of year anyway.

Shelley, apart from dad, you have my undivided attention…


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