Despite the fact that my son was born in a snowstorm and then Christened a year later amidst flurries as deep as he was high, Harry has never yet experienced snow. The last snow fell when he was still crawling and tottering, oblivious to it all, so this winter he has been feverishly waiting for the kind of glorious, thickly falling snowball-snow promised by all the films and books he’s seen this Christmas. We were finally rewarded last night with promises of an overnight dump, and Harry got to stand in his slippers in the garden and feel the first few flakes before bed. He awoke – on a Sunday no less, how good does it get? – to knee-deep snow, of a perfect consistency for exploration. The first shock was how utterly cold it is (who knew?), and then a whirlwind discovery of snowballs, sledging, frozen ponds and snowmen-building took place in the space of an hour, before hot chocolate was called for. We took the opportunity to kick back and watch my husband clearing the driveway whilst we drank; there’s nothing like witnessing hard-work to wear you out.