The doomsayers are at it, pronouncing the end of civilisation due to an imminent three inches of snow. Having said this, there’s no exit from this village except over steep and winding hills, and last time it snowed we didn’t have a bus for four days. So I filled up a bucket of ash and salt suitable for gritting, found the shovel and yard brush, emptied the front of the carport, took a deep breath – and parked in it.
It’s a very, very small carport. I reversed wincingly round an awkward curve, trying not to grate the paint off the car onto the breeze blocks, until we bounced delicately off some bags of shrub clippings and the water butt, and I gave myself a gold star. And then I wondered exactly how I was to open the car door.