Last week, we had enough accumulation in one night, that I had to walk through knee-high snow to get to my car. Can you guess the height of my winter boots? Let's just say, they were woefully insufficient. You know it's bad when it makes the most sense to use a snow shovel to (carefully) remove the snow from the top of your car instead of the usual seasonal accessory. If I had used my measly scraper and broom combination tool, it would have been like using a human-sized toothbrush on an adult-sized elephant's tusk. I think you get the drift.

For the most part, between the shovelling and trudging through the barely-cleared sidewalks, I've been getting plenty of exercise. When I am walking through the older neighbourhoods of Stratford (think late 1890's, early 1900's), I look forward to inhaling the tell-tale aroma of wood-burning fireplaces. There's just something about it. I imagine a dark panelled library. There are ceiling-high mahogany bookshelves covering two walls. A single scented pillar candle burns, releasing the combined scent of ginger and cloves. The flames flicker, hiss and spit within their confines of the stone and brick enclosure containing them. Standing in the middle of the room, an obscured figure turns the page of a well-read book, seconds before a steaming mug is raised from the nearby walnut table.

Hey there Mother Nature, would you please give Old Man Winter a one-week vacation?