So here in the UK we’ve had a lot of snow this week.
It’s one of those events that is always notable. As such, it has the power to call to mind all the previous times in our memories that it has snowed. It’s easier for us to access our own childhoods through these less than common events, than through the day to day occurrences.
“Stilo?! Stilo?! Madame, stilo s’il vous plait?!”
This is the cry that will greet me for the next couple of weeks during my stay at a retreat where I will increase my abilities as a Pilates teacher, as well as enjoying the delights of a fairly remote Berber village some 45 minutes distance south of Marrakech.
It was my nephew’s 17th birthday this week, and this is the first year since he was born that an annual ritual remains unfulfilled.
The day after Sam was born, I laid him on a piece of paper, and drew round his fledgling form. Every year after that, either on or close to his birthday, we repeated this ceremony, needing a larger and larger piece of paper as he grew into the young man who is now old enough to try for a driving licence.