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Tags: Winter

A woman drives through woods in winter. On either side of the car, tall trees stand and sulk, resisting winter’s demise at the year’s turn. The woman is scared. She is the fifth carer for the old man, and no one has told her why. But she’s heard the stories and she is afraid. It’s New Yea

Getting my son to school, the comedy of errors begins. Because the locking mechanism on my Subaru has frozen, the rear door won’t open unless I do it from the outside. I pull the parking brake, step out and find myself spread eagled on a sheath of black ice. Whenever I turn off the radio, the door

It was my mother’s last Christmas, though we didn’t know it then. She was slower, I recall; less stately, less loquacious, less of her all round. The fierce pince-nez on the end of her nose, yet still, her summer rose blush dusted on sharp cheekbones, a black dress, that diamond brooch of twin f

The snow began as I was driving home from Sunday dinner with Maria and her family. Really Christmas, I thought, and felt comforted. Maria’s family had welcomed me as an honoured guest. Probably, I’d thought, the first foreigner ever to enter their home. Certainly the first welcome foreigner.

Oh blimey, Frank. Give me strength. It sweeps the ceiling, stretches to the walls. Their flat smells dark green, of pine-forest. Their rag-rug that they’d made together, over long dark evenings in the hiss of gaslight smelling of fish-glue, is already piled thick with needles. Oh Frank, be careful

The city museum is free, and that’s one thing. So far this morning they’ve spent no more than five minutes in any of the places they’ve visited, chased by the cold and the crowds. Sephy had forgotten how bleak it was in England at this time of year, so close to Christmas. Some of her sunny, Ne

Before my husband’s night shift, I put a three-bean chilli on the table and kiss him on the head. He is holding his phone in his hand and scrolling through his December rota. The night of the 24th is marked as LN − long night. As is the following night. I had only just put the beans to soak when

Santa stared disconsolately at his Ofsant report: ‘Quality of presents: good. Workshop and warehouse staffing: poor, due to decline of elderly elves and growth of demand. Business critical. Immediate action required.’   The wind howled around the eaves of the house. Lightning crackled

No bridge spans that boatless river, known to one side as the Reka, to the other the Wassel. No tunnel links the two − not twin! − cities. No flights crisscross their skies. Each, professing itself separate and sufficient, has turned its backside on the other. Ramparts reinforce the riverbanks.

Christmas Eve had always been Matt’s favourite night of the year. The reasons he liked it were not the same ones that appealed to other people. It had never been, for him, an evening of quiet relaxation and festive cheer. In fact, it was always a time of hard work, when he would put in a much lo