Blankets, open-fires, mugs of hot-chocolate, red noses, and mittens. Summer holds the most enthralling memories of childhood for me, but Winter will always be my true love. Frost and thin blankets of snow turn mundane, ugly housing estates into perfect postcard scenes; breath escapes in cloudy plumes as soon as the front door is opened. And though youth holds dear the snowball-fights the snowmen, and the sledging; contemplative winter tranquility - the kind that sets in during your teenage years and nestles in until you're hooked - wins hands down.
I wonder if, like me, everyone else spends the Winter months trying to recreate that sense of peace and utter contentment we hear in the poems and songs of yesteryear. Does anyone actually roast chestnuts on an open fire? Celebrate in warmly lit houses with Mistletoe and Wine? Does that inner exhale, the 'this is exactly how I wanted it to be', actually exist?
For me, it does. I'm not saying that everyday from November to February exists in an exuberant joy-filled bubble - in fact, the moments I'm talking about are very rare. They are unexpected. And they are priceless.
This year, I had just moved out of the flat I shared with my husband and daughter. It was, to put it nicely, a complete hole. One which would have been bearable if it weren't for the rotting floorboards that soaked all clothes, linen and furniture with a sickly mildew smell. After months of badgering our estate agent, our kitchen floor still sank a few inches in the middle and the smell continued to exacerbate my already chronic morning sickness courtesy of offspring numero-deux. Finally, we decided to admit defeat and temporarily encroach on my parent's hospitality. The move itself was hell in a snow-globe. The heating wasn't working, so our fingers were stiff and painful while carelessly throwing possessions in boxes and eventually transporting them down the flight of slippery concrete stairs to the car. Seven hours, two sandwiches and not one cup of tea later, the last load was done and I collapsed in a big girly heap on my mother's sofa, shuddering and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. In typical mum-style, she immediately sent me off for a hot bath with a large mug of strong, sweet tea; my toes and my mood began to thaw out as the hot-tap threw steam akin to a small volcano around the bathroom.
This all seems important to mention; I suppose a feeling of utter relief, calm and introspection often comes as a direct result of a few horrible hours you're happy to say goodbye to. I was red and wrinkled - wrapping myself in a thick toweled dressing-gown when laughter from downstairs floated into ear-shot. Company. Warmth. A large double-bed with linen that did not smell of floorboards. That was my moment this year - when I sat back and asked myself if I had ever needed anything more than that to feel completely whole and content.
Writers recognise how glorious minutes like that are - which is why they try to recreate them. Characters curled up with hot-chocolate watching the rain through dark windows; protagonists watching their family's festive cheer full of nostalgia and love. We spend a lot of time trying to articulate something which for all intents and purposes, completely defies explanation.
It seems odd - that this is a winter-exclusive experience for me. For some reason, that kind of inner warmth only ever materializes when it's cold outside.
I wonder if, like me, everyone else spends the Winter months trying to recreate that sense of peace and utter contentment we hear in the poems and songs of yesteryear. Does anyone actually roast chestnuts on an open fire? Celebrate in warmly lit houses with Mistletoe and Wine? Does that inner exhale, the 'this is exactly how I wanted it to be', actually exist?
For me, it does. I'm not saying that everyday from November to February exists in an exuberant joy-filled bubble - in fact, the moments I'm talking about are very rare. They are unexpected. And they are priceless.
This year, I had just moved out of the flat I shared with my husband and daughter. It was, to put it nicely, a complete hole. One which would have been bearable if it weren't for the rotting floorboards that soaked all clothes, linen and furniture with a sickly mildew smell. After months of badgering our estate agent, our kitchen floor still sank a few inches in the middle and the smell continued to exacerbate my already chronic morning sickness courtesy of offspring numero-deux. Finally, we decided to admit defeat and temporarily encroach on my parent's hospitality. The move itself was hell in a snow-globe. The heating wasn't working, so our fingers were stiff and painful while carelessly throwing possessions in boxes and eventually transporting them down the flight of slippery concrete stairs to the car. Seven hours, two sandwiches and not one cup of tea later, the last load was done and I collapsed in a big girly heap on my mother's sofa, shuddering and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. In typical mum-style, she immediately sent me off for a hot bath with a large mug of strong, sweet tea; my toes and my mood began to thaw out as the hot-tap threw steam akin to a small volcano around the bathroom.
This all seems important to mention; I suppose a feeling of utter relief, calm and introspection often comes as a direct result of a few horrible hours you're happy to say goodbye to. I was red and wrinkled - wrapping myself in a thick toweled dressing-gown when laughter from downstairs floated into ear-shot. Company. Warmth. A large double-bed with linen that did not smell of floorboards. That was my moment this year - when I sat back and asked myself if I had ever needed anything more than that to feel completely whole and content.
Writers recognise how glorious minutes like that are - which is why they try to recreate them. Characters curled up with hot-chocolate watching the rain through dark windows; protagonists watching their family's festive cheer full of nostalgia and love. We spend a lot of time trying to articulate something which for all intents and purposes, completely defies explanation.
It seems odd - that this is a winter-exclusive experience for me. For some reason, that kind of inner warmth only ever materializes when it's cold outside.
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