It's been too long. Once again I've neglected my poor blog.
But you should be grateful I spared you the full force of my anger and frustration these last weeks. A week before Christmas, my husband left for Heathrow to pick up Daughter Number One. Seven hours later, he returned home alone. There was no daughter to welcome home, a ritual I cherish.
She was in Paris, and Heathrow was shut down due to—get this—a total of five inches of snow.
I could understand a few hours of delays. But just as her plane was about to land, it was diverted to Charles de Gaulle in Paris. And there she stayed for three days. Three. Days.
Oh, but I said I was going to spare you my frustration and anger. Like the anger I felt at the local council, who never bothered to clear any minor roads, including those in our neighborhood. Cars slipped and slid all over, at least until they could get to the highway.
Or the anger I felt at my neighbors, who didn't bother—for a whole week—to shovel or salt their driveways or sidewalks, as I slipped and slid on my daily dog walk.
And I promise, I won't sound sanctimonious as I tell you how I shoveled the cul-de-sac the first day it snowed, knowing the steep drive would be treacherous when my husband returned from the airport. (The treacherous part was the three-hour drive home, through diversion after diversion, caused by—that's right, five inches of snow. An amount that wouldn't have been a problem in any other civilized society. A society that invested in snow plows.)
Water under the bridge, and all that.
When Daughter Number One finally arrived—only after my husband drove to Paris to collect her and two other passengers (but there I go, sounding sanctimonious again)—we drove to Stonehenge, since by then two houseguests had joined us. I'd blithely promised to show them some old stuff, not knowing most old stuff would be buried under five inches of snow.
It happened to be the Winter Solstice.
And when we drove up to Avebury, another lesser known stone circle, there were the Pagans in full force, performing a ceremony that turned out to be a wedding.
Sitting in a pub with our daughter and friends, watching the fire twirling around the dancing Pagans as the sun set over the stones, I decided to let it go.
It's a new year. Daughter Number One is back in the States, Daughter Number Two is here, and I hope you're enjoying your new year. So far, mine hasn't been too bad.