spiders in baths

After being snowed in for more than a week we are running out of food and decide to chance our luck on the icy roads. Living in a valley, as we do, all routes out involve going up steep hills; in this sort of weather we are rather like a spider in a bath tub. Surprisingly, the journey out is easy. Arriving at the supermarket, most of North Cornwall's residents are here - it's busier than Christmas. The gaps on the supermarket shelves suggest bread-making is undergoing a renaissance as are stews and casseroles: there is something quite old-fashioned about all of this. By the time we start to head back, the sun has set and the temperature drops to minus three. The journey back begins well enough, but less than a mile from home we find ourselves stranded half way up a hill; having slewed backwards on sheet ice, we are wedged between two granite hedgerows. Sharon and I have a short 'discussion' about how to extricate ourselves and the word 'twat' is uttered more than once before we agree on a plan. After some slipping and sliding and wheel spinning, we get free and with a sense of desperation try another route; this one is also tricky but, as it turns out, not as bad as expected. Arriving home in one piece is a relief and with food enough for another week we won't be going out again in a hurry. I like this enforced isolation and it will be a shame when it comes to an end.