My son wakes up and bounds under our duvet, joining his sister who’s been purring on my wife’s chest for the past few hours. We’ve been waiting for this, and not merely because our body clocks have long since primed us for his early morning invasion of our bed and we now automatically wake up about five minutes before it happens each day. No, mainly it’s because we know something he doesn’t; that it’s been snowing – actual proper snowing – all night.
‘Go to the window,’ we say, like reprehensibly twee parents from a Victorian children’s book. He clambers to the curtains, pulling them back and taking in the view like a stunned Dickensian waif.
