Last night I stuffed and sewed up three more teddies, wound their wee scarves round their necks, and prepared them for their journey to Africa. I am hoping the one with albino features won’t be too frightening to the children. Not wanting them to forget their roots, I took the newly christened Paddington, Winnie and Rupert out for a frolic in the fresh fallen snow with Edward and Mrs Simpson.
When we got back home, I brushed the snowflakes off their paws, gave them a spoonful each of honey, and we all set off to Sally’s house – the first staging post for the long journey to find their new owners and cheer up some small people’s lives in a far-off continent.
The road up to Sally’s house was covered with yet another layer of snow – another two inches fell last night. But in the village, concern is less for our never-ending snow, but for the devastating floods in Queensland. Everyone knows someone in Australia, and it has been headline news for several days. Today, people are glued to their televisions, unable to comprehend what they seeing and the speed with which the flood waters have swept through Toowomba and, so unexpectedly, the centre of Brisbane. Jenny, who is from Brisbane and runs the ski lodge, is in a state of shock and when I telephoned she poured out her concerns for her friends and family (“it’s so reassuring to hear another Aussie accent” she said) and her feeling of helplessness at being so far away.
Paddington, Winnie, Rupert, Edward and Mrs Simpson are unaware of these dramas, although they are about to be caught up in one of their own. The six of us stomp gaily through the crispy crunchy snow, enjoying the sunny afternoon, and then I turn into the gate at Sally’s house.
I ring the bell. No answer. I decide to walk around to the back of the house. Big mistake.
Phlomph!
My feet go from under me and I slide to the ground, at speed, hitting my head hard on the ice which lies hidden under the fluffy snow. I lie there, stunned, my head spinning. Eventually I gingerly get up, shake off the snow, stand still while my head stops swimming, and then move again towards the back door. A few careful steps ....
Phlomph!
I go down again. My bottom sure is taking a battering, but I keep my head up. I look behind me and see the patch where I just fell and realise that there is ice over an inch thick spread across Sally’s driveway that the new snow has rendered invisible.
Feeling considerably shaken, I decide to forget the visit and go back home to the safety of my cottage. I can come back another day. Anyway, the house looks very closed up. I walk very, very tentatively back down the drive, hugging the side by the gate to give myself something to hold onto. Which wasn’t terribly successful, because
Phlomph!
My feet disappear from under me and I land on my wrist, but no harm done, except to my pride. As Sally’s house is pretty isolated I can be reasonably sure no one is peering through their lace curtains, enjoying this laugh-a-minute banana-skin falling about.
Finally I make it to the road and proceed to walk uneasily down the laneway. A short way down, I hear a voice call my name, and Val appears at the door of her cottage. She waves me to come in.
“I’m covered in snow, I’m afraid,” I tell her. “I just slipped over three times on Sally’s drive. It is sheet ice.”
Val tells me Sally did the same thing herself yesterday and is now quite scared of getting out of her house.
“She took a terrible tumble, and was well shook up.” If only I had telephoned first, but I wanted to surprise her with my bevy of bears.
Val brews me a restorative cup of tea which I sit and drink in my damp trousers. Her top tip for walking in these conditions is to wear socks over her boots as the wool clings to the ice. Crampons can be useless, as the spikes can snap off. Avoidance is the best method, even it means swinging from tree branch to shrubs for maximum hold, or climbing over fences to walk via fields. In an emergency some folk just get down on their hands and knees and proceed, doggy-style.
“That’s no gud for me, I could never get up again,” she says.
Val tells me that during the last dump of snow, she and Elaine were venturing down the hill to the pub, when they were offered a lift.
“We were nay gonna ask twice,” she said, “and we leapt into the car.
“When we got to the bottom of the hill, I got my foot all wrapped up in the seat belt and couldna get out. Then Elaine fell on the snow as she got out, hit the lamppost, turned round and apologised to it.
“We were laughing so much, we couldna stop. In the pub, everyone started laughing too, even though they didna ken what they were laughing at.”
But Winnie the Pooh has the last word:
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