Snow?

It snowed over night. And now everyone is dead.

At least that’s my fear when at 4:30, then 4:45, then 5am, there is no movement from Mr H and his charming son, 22 year old H-Junior, sleeping in the next room. I bang pots. I mess with the stove (five tries using all available kindling). I shine the flashlight around spastically. Still nothing. In my limited 24 hours worth of the cow-milking world, 5am is nearing ground zero for full udders. Something must be seriously wrong.

Finally I brave peeking into their room. “Time to get up maybe?” The answer, loosely translated, comes back as “Leave it to the pros, honey.”

Ahh zo, as they like to say up here. Turns out there is a mysterious relationship between snow and sleeping in – just like on a good ski holiday. Indeed, I had heard the cows butting my wall occasionally in the night. And there they were, like a queue of homeless bums outside the Sally Anne, all huddled around the barn door, when they were finally let in around 6.

PS Is now 7am, the milking is going on at the hands of Mr H and H-Junior and I am busting for the loo. A big fat cow is blocking the door.