It's Twelfth Night tonight, and in British folk tradition the Christmas decorations now have to come down or there will be bad luck for the household.
Aimee, of course, combining her uber-Protestant Church of the Brethren upbringing with her current scientific outlook on life, condemns all such folk-ways as superstitious and even secretly Catholic.
Technically she is of course correct on both counts. It is superstition, and it is also Catholic -- the feast of the Epiphany, to be exact.
Neither is going to stop me from taking down the tree. I don't need any bad luck, touchwood. And while I'm scientific enough to see that it's superstitious, old habits die hard. My Welsh grannie, a Jones from Macynlleth, would be proud of me; she who put milk at the bottom of the garden for the fairies and told me that King Arthur was waiting in a Welsh Mountain to save Britain again one day.
Maybe he is too. Right now he'd have to save the poor old "sceptred isle" from snow.
Life at the end of the Road on Raasay has a few difficulties getting to work.
Musings from a Stonehead is "up to his b******ks" in the white stuff.
Even Colour it Green Diary in the far southwest of the yUKe had a bit, but then got rain.
And the Guardian is running a picture-special-online-interactive-instant-snow update center.
A bit too much fuss over such a little snow if you ask me.