where the writers are
Baby, it's cold outside...

Friday: this week's third snow day. Though it may seem derisory to those of you in Canada, or Norway, there are about eight inches of snow in our street, which have been comfortably resting there since Tuesday lunchtime, thank you very much. 

Yesterday, Ricky dug the car out of the street using only the yard brush. (It's very powdery snow, you see). I went to work, gaining much-appreciated kudos and congratulations from my coworkers, all of whom live much closer to my workplace than do I. They were keen to hear the tales of how we'd survived the whiteout over the past few days, so I spun them a yarn about slaughtering a bison, then cooking it over a fire we'd built in the living room, then covering ourselves in its skin to stay warm. I didn't mention the part about turning the central heating thermostat a couple of centigrade up while Ricky was looking the other way, or sitting covered in a blanket on the sofa reading a novel. (Currently re-reading: Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami). 

Of course, this 'unexpected snow event', as the BBC is calling it, has been great for the Project. I am now a nose away from finishing the first draft. By my calculations, I make that two noses away from getting to the editing and rewriting part! Did I mention that's my favourite bit? (only about 37 times, Bradley.)

To me, there's no greater blessing than an unexpected day off work. It's not that I don't like my job (I do; I love it very much, in fact) but that I can always think of better things to do at home. Write words on The Project? Done! Cat taunted with a bit of string and an empty cotton reel? Done! Loaf of bread baked? Thousands of cups of tea drunk? Snowman built? Done, done, done. 

Days like this don't come along often. What do you do on your unexpected days off?