So this morning I got up to play my usual round of Sunday golf at 7.35 am to avoid carving into that all important family day. The rain had been lashing down all night and the dog was not impressed when I kicked her outside in the what was still a torrent.
The forecast was for it to clear up about 9.30, so I was hoping as I drove to the Royal Wheathill (thank you Juliet for that soubriquet) that it would start to ease sometime soon. But it was not to be. As I stood with Julian pondering if Steve had the good sense to not even bother getting out of bed for this, the rain started to turn to sleet. And as Steve arrived to participate in the debate, it started to snow.
And it continued to do so for about an hour after that, leaving golf out of the question, but some very attractive views of the garden. The weathemen had not forecast any snow which made the white covering all the more beautiful. But it was cold. Claire and I decided that the snow would count as the first frost of the year, thereby allowing us to abide by family tradition to only pick the first brussels sprouts after a frost. And they were delicious with our roast pork chop at lunchtime. Excellent.