It was one of the most unhelpful things I’ve ever said.  If you exclude countless random quotations from my toddler’s TV shows, typically made at inappropriate moments. “Oh no, it’s the Pinky Ponk” is a great eyebrow-raiser, for example. On this occasion my wife looked a bit surprised, though not unpleasantly so, and she was mildly amused I think, though not impressed.  I should work on that really, impressing my wife I mean…

One gift still under the tree, the room almost tidy, but not quite, that wreckage known as “what’s left of Christmas”, clutter on the acceptable side of chaos. A desultory crowd of reindeer lounging about on the stove, remotes scattered about (maddening I tell you, they should be lined up), the occasional fallen Christmas card abandoned mercilessly by its friends. Tins of chocolate everywhere, clearly some sort of godforsaken attempt  to make me fat.

A strong Belgian beer beside me, a book in my right hand, my left hand freely alternating between the beer and a plate of crispy duck niblets which, in my experience, are the answer. Ba da bing, ba da boom, I could easily spend the rest of my life in harmony with beer and crispy duck niblets. A happy though pointless existence.  Across the room my wife sat in a little spot filled with property papers, garden magazines and an arty book on home design with an infuriatingly trendy cover.

“Arrrrgh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to her head, “my mind is going completely mad.”

“Is it a bit like driving at high speed through a cloud of flies and watching them splat on the windscreen?” I asked, helpfully.

She laughed, somewhat artificially, “not really, no, but thanks for your help.”  I do like to help. Maybe I should have gone with the Pinky Ponk line.

Whenever it snows I secretly look forward to seeing people slip over. Bwahahahahaha. Let me rephrase that. Whenever it snows I sometimes get pleasure out of seeing people slip over as long as nobody is hurt.  I know, I know, my civilised instincts are unparalleled.

It snowed heavily over the weekend. The town looked fantastic. It’s always pretty, Harrogate that is, but a snowy Harrogate is a beautiful one. The Stray looked delightful, dark frames of trees contrasting sharply with a vast blanket of white. Such whiteness, it looked like a scene from Narnia. Everything was white. I even saw a chap wearing a white jacket, white hoody, white trousers and white trainers with white laces. He carried a white bag and was playing on a white Nintendo DS. Bit dangerous really, especially if the White Witch was in the vicinity. What if he fell in the snow and couldn’t get up? I’d have played on a red DS just in case.

I walked through town on my way home. A man came out of a pub for a smoke. He smoked like a true Yorkshireman, back inside 30 seconds later after a relentless, aggressive sequence of double-puffs. Flat cap, blue, long grey hair, bedraggled, a face that said ‘bloody snow, bloody cold’. He was right. The bleakness was refreshing, the town picturesque, but it was bloody cold, far too cold, and I looked forward to getting home.

As I passed the solicitors a suited gentleman stood shivering on the steps. Dark grey suit, dark red tie, dark black hair, another stark contrast against the snow. He wore shiny black brogues. Picked the wrong day to wear brogues mate, I thought. Balanced on the steps, clutching a salt-shaker, he shook it about with the delicate air of a man in brogues on snow on steps. Brogues notwithstanding it made perfect sense, the recession is bad enough without rich clients slipping on his steps and breaking bones.

I hear a cry behind me. The solicitor is on his back at the foot of the steps, floundering about in the snow like a penguin in a toboggan accident. He clambered to his feet, brushed himself off and pretended nothing had happened. I paused and savored the moment, then headed home. Time to introduce Bubba Stoneskin to snow for the first time.   She squirmed excitedly and pressed her little hands against the glass.

“Milk?” she said.