Wintered out

On a week where both kids have either been sent home or refused to go to school; after the flu, another cold (thoughtfully brought round by my sister on a flying visit a couple of weekends a go) several sore throats and some vaccinations, our immune systems are just about finished off. So I’ve been finding things to do that require little physical effort, if not rather a lot of faff and bother: filling holes in the kids’ new bedrooms where we’ve moved pictures around; going through the filing; reorganising our finances so our pensions are in one place.

Now that was a bloody palaver. Anyone would think they (the schemes which lure you into savings) don’t want you to be able move your own money (which is rather the point, I suspect). But trying to unlock your capital to avoid it being eaten away by fees and the wild ramblings of Donald Trump is a pain in the backside nonetheless. Remembering passwords, usernames and answers to obscure security questions such as, “what’s your bosses’ daughter’s favourite ice cream flavour”, some ten years after you first conjured then, requires painstaking resetting. Nothing, it seems, is easy, particularly when your own money’s involved. It makes selling my bitcoins (which I did thankfully before the crash) look like a breeze.

But that, as they say, is life. And, given it’s still fuckun freezing and everyone is still hibernating, the rest of the time I’ve been watching telly (historical dramas appears to be my thang) and planning future fun- a jaunt to our cottage in Devon for a long weekend since we’re in Thailand at Easter; Tom’s 45th birthday that we’re planning to celebrate in a coffee and cocktails chain we invested in (rather against my better judgement, if I’m honest) last year, catching up with friends and family after months of hibernating.

And then, spring was on hold for another week, the “beast from the east”, or whatever melodramatic meteorology metaphor you like, blew in and another week was wasted, treading, not water but ice and snow. But rather than the schools giving the kids a jolly, we were forced to plough on through blizzard and gale, the wheels of commerce (or it’s digital modern equivalent) stopping for snowman, or rather not, which is really rather sad, given it’s rarity and the general disruption it causes.

I guess, given the wheels of finance (or rather our long-ago planted cryptobulbs) already afforded us the opportunity to go where the snow is sunkissed rather than mudslushed, this year, I shouldn’t complain. But little, unexpected breaks from routine and humdrum everyday life in this grey old city so much more bearable- and one’s childhood so much more memorable.

But, while I and the children soldiered on last week, regardless of the weather, my cleaner (who I’ve known and supported for years since running a cleaning agency many years ago, and landing her a job working as a nanny for a local international celebrity) cried off due to snow (or childcare, or whatever the current reason happens to be). So, given the domestic drudgery that’s taken over my life this winter, and current crackdown on bending the rules, I’m bloomin’ well ready for spring- that is, if I can find someone else to do the cleaning as well as I do it, which, when you are mildly OCD about dust and fingerprints, is really not that easy, however much I try to control it.

But at least it’s cold enough to wear gloves to bed, to salve my chapped hands overnight. If only it were as easy to soothe my soul. But I guess, in winter, that’s what carbs and wine are for. So with three weeks to go till Thailand, Drach (that’s Dry March, for the initiated- far less onerous than Dranuary) beckons, alongside hitting the HIT classes at lunchtime rather than just taking it easy with yoga. Shedding our winter skins requires discipline this time of year, but for the holiday of a lifetime for our family, it’ll be worth it for a Facebook album of memories so glorious it’ll ensure I’m unfollowed by anyone left standing on my algorithm.