A lot has happened in the several months that have passed since I last had time to write a blog entry.

The fruit of over a year of preparation took place in late December: our wedding. It was the perfect day, and it went with no hiccups, no problems, and no disappointments. It feels like it happened only a few days ago, but it was 13 weeks ago tomorrow. We don’t have the photos back from the photographer yet, but as soon as we do I’ll create an album in the gallery for them; and I’ll also try to collect together any photos that other people took – there are already some on Facebook and other places.

January was mostly quiet. Charlie and I had some time off work after the wedding to relax, enjoy being newly married, and let it all sink in (I still don’t think it has for me yet).

However, it became interesting in February. We had a little bit of snow. Ok, a fair amount of snow; the news told us we hadn’t seen so much snow for 18 years, but personally I don’t think there’s much value in measuring how much we had – it was more than none, and it was less than enough to stop people from getting out of their houses and buying as much milk and bread as they could find. You know, more bread than anyone could possibly eat before its use-by date.

But of course, although we get snow pretty much every year, even the slightest snowfall brings the country, particularly the transport infrastructure, to a grinding halt. And then people start using the snow as an excuse not to go to work. People drive like idiots, down the middle of the road, as if the kerb is now bristling with tyre-popping spikes. Fortunately it only lasted for a week or so, the MET Office’s predictions becoming more hilariously inaccurate with each passing hour. But that’s it for snow, until next year.

Then the snow thawed. And then it refroze. And then, like a 94-year-old man, I took a tumble on the ice and landed on my poor hand, while holding my car keys. But after a call to NHS Direct, a few trips to hospital (including A&E), 2 sets of x-rays, more GP visits and phonecalls than I can remember, and about three weeks off work, it seems I didn’t fracture my scaphoid. Or maybe I did, I don’t know – I never got to see the x-rays. And I’m not sure anyone else did, either.