Snow joke

Oh, the bliss! The Treasures’ ludicrously expensive schools are shut, shuddering at the thought of a single snowflake sullying their immaculate tarmac, and we have spent two days at Brockwell Park, whooshing down slopes on my least favourite tray from Peter Jones, emblazoned with an unpleasantly photographic rendition of a passion fruit.

There was some muttering from the darlings, I do admit, as they are used to their top of the range Swiss sleigh, which has every possible embellishment a girl could want, short of a team of matching Lipizzaner ponies to pull you along (I was working on that when everything went belly-up Abroad). But, as I pointed out, someone just along from us was using a blue Ikea bag and there were a couple of boys making do perfectly well with corrugated cardboard, accessorised only with merry smiles.

Best of all, while I was working on developing a lushly apple-cheeked glow in the great outdoors, True Love was snowed in at home, unable to get to his office in an achingly trendy part of town and forced to bunker down in Divorce Towers with only his laptop and Jumbo the bunny for company.

Natually, the moment we were back, he managed to get the front door open, (my strategic piles of snow were no match for his manly muscles, sigh) and he was off, saying he was going to do the panic buying at Sainsbury’s Local. I thought that would be the last we saw of him for some time, but he made his way courageously home through the wild, snow-blasted terrain of Herne Hill with not one, but four different types of humous and a brace of avocados.

Hmm. Humous was on the list, and I was mindful that, as ever, I was not only looking a gift Lipizzaner in the mouth but kicking it in the shins for good measure by even mentioning staples like milk, bread and butter. ‘Humous?’ I said weakly.

He shrugged. ‘They’d run out of doughnuts,’ he explained.

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