On the Farm

2am.
I can’t sleep: the wind is howling against the walls of the Bed & Breakfast I am staying at, and some kind of generator system intermittently screeches like a bad grunge riff. There is so much snow outside that even the middle of the night looks like dusk. I peeped through the blinds a bit ago to be met with the most horrible sight: someone has made a huge white snowman with a black face. I wish there was hot chocolate over there, by the kettle, because it’s definitely a suitable time for one. I can’t really complain though, as I didn’t plan to come here.
The B&B I had booked called whilst I was somewhere on the A14. I pulled over, but it really didn’t feel safe to: every time a lorry passed (often) the car rocked like a punch bag. “Sorry, our heating is broken,” said Mrs. Proprietor. “I’ve rung up in the next village and they can have you there.”
This was a blow, because for one, the place I’d planned to stay at had an enchanting name – The Apothecary – and two: pubs, shops and beautiful old buildings nearby. The sign for this B&B is written in marker pen, slanted and spidery like a teenaged boy’s hand.
It’s actually rather plush, here, if a little colonial. Whilst I drank tea from a china mug I penned a letter to my cousin in Paraguay. I’d love to visit her – the kids over there are so cute, and her school looks fun. And, oh, the weather! I am going to swear my head off if I’m snowed in tomorrow.
Being snowed in with an appealing young man, some good whisky and a fire, would be one thing.
I don’t really want to hang around too long in the same place as whoever made that snowman.