In the story Red Snapper by Roddy Doyle, snapper refers to an illegitimate child, but when I said it this morning it meant it was too cold to stand outside in a T-shirt and longjohns to get a picture of the bricks I want covered in time for Christmas.
["Holy snapper," I said, before taking this picture from indoors: GAH]
In comparison to the quarter-inch of snow we have in London, my sister and brother-in-law in Bracebridege are buried in the white stuff.
Jim is barely visible at the end of his drive at 7 a.m.
[My sister took this shot from inside her carport, in her PJs]
Snow cover on the roof of their carport at 10 a.m. That looks like 24 inches of snow to me, at least.
I think I live in the wrong town to be wishing for 18 inches of snow for Christmas.
***
Maybe I should move to Nova Scotia. That province usually gets buried too.
But would they have me?
.
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