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The recent weather has meant we’ve been feeling sorry for ourselves as we trudge to work and back. Dave Woodhall looks at it from another angle.

I spent much of Wednesday cursing about the weather, the roads, the council, the lack of grit, salt and common sense, the binmen, the government, the Met Office, the weather again.

I spent even more of Wednesday within toasting distance of the fire. We’ve got a coal fire; everyone who comes to our house says they love it.

Of course they do. They just look at the lovely shapes flames make and get warm.

We’re the ones who have to clean the grate, get the ashes out, curse when the ashes spill all over the back step, have to carry them when they’ve got soaked in the bin bag, keep getting up every five minutes to put more coal on it, go out first thing in the freezing cold morning to fetch more coal. But that’s another moan, for another day.

Then I realised I’d got to go to the post box, so on with coat, scarf, gloves, big boots (finally proving their worth ten years after being bought) and slipping, sliding and staggering I went down to the post box at the bottom of the road, cursing once more the incompetence of a council who couldn’t grit our road or empty the bins and wondering what would happen if I told them the weather was too bad to pay the council tax.

And I came home, switched on the TV and realised that in the time I’d taken to curse and slide my way to the post box up to 50,000 people may have died, millions had their lives ruined and one of the most desperately poor nations on earth was torn apart. And I thanked God that all we really have to worry about is getting home a bit late.



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