The big freeze duly put paid to my Friday evening flight to Stansted, though it wasn't entirely clear why. There was a heavy snow shower while I travelled to the airport, and an inch or two on the ground there, but most other flights seemed to get away fine. I suspect the budget airlines would rather cough up refunds and subject their staff to irate passengers than risk getting their aircraft stuck in the wrong places. After vainly spending 3 uninformed hours at the airport I was as irate as the next passenger (though not as angry as some Marrakech holidaymakers whose flight was eventually cancelled nearly 5 hours after it was due to depart), but 12 hours later curses turned to thanks when the match at the holy ground was postponed less than 3 hours before kickoff. Merci, le grand froid britannique.
I've thus been able to spend a relaxing and lazy weekend chez moi watching ma bien-aimée put up Christmas decorations. The apartment has also suddenly filled up with enough tiny items of clothing to dress triplets, thanks to some exceedingly generous neighbours. Also taking up space is a cot, which they suddenly wanted us to take off their hands because newly acquired bunk beds took up far more space in their kids' room than expected. This after attending our first prenatal session on Friday morning. The coming event has abruptly become more tangible…
