Sunday morning, warming up and tracking.

1. Nick takes me out for breakfast -- at 10am the streets are Sunday silent and the air is so cold and still that it feels as if we are watching the world through glass.

2. Hot chocolate with a peak of foam on top and flecks of chocolate melting into it.

3. He calls down from the attic: "Darling wife, I can track our pizza on-line!"

The apple, off the snow and an evening with friends.

Was talking about bird footprints in the snow the other day, and look, Lucille has put some pictures on her blog, Useful or Beautiful.

1.How gratifying to see the apple I put out for the birds pecked into a mass of peaks and chasms.

2. It's such a relief to come off compacted and frozen snow, where I have been sliding and sinking by turns, and on to a gritted road.

3. Coming into a warm, bright house where there will be an evening of pizza and gaming.

Hanging, new notebooks and the snow is still fresh.

1. Icicles (some bowed, some double-tipped) are arrayed like exotic weapons.

2. I buy two new shorthand notebooks -- a very cheap pleasure at 98p.

3. Even after six days, the snow on our road still says "crump crump crump" as I walk across it.

The universe calls 'halt', watching the snow and domestic pleasures.

Edit -- to share a lovely post from Elspeth Thompson.

1. I have a cold, and it's completely floored me -- every time I try to do something, I get tired and achy and frustrated. All I can do is lie in bed and watch the snow.

2. It's hard to tell if the white dust fogging up the yard is new snow or snow picked up from the ground by the wind. Great clots of snow drop from the dark cupressus trees, fall to powder and are whirled away.

3. The crackle of static and the smell of clean laundry as we sort and fold the final load.

First snow, hot potato and Christmas show.

1. I come out of the bookshop and fragments of snow are falling. At first I think it must be fake, blown from a display somewhere, because no-one else is reacting. But then two women pass me and I overhear: "Is it snowing? It's snowing, isn't it." I walk home on light feet with a huge smile on my face.

2. Taking a hot baked potato out of the oven.

3. I go to see A Christmas Carol at Trinity. It's a very spare production with a cast of eight playing multiple parts, but it's very cleverly done. A lot of the 'scenery' is created using a Greek-style chorus. The words are all Dickens', too, which is wonderful, particularly if you've recently read the book. Afterwards, I tell Caroline (who saw it the day before for reviewing purposes) that I wouldn't have minded seeing it all over again. She agrees.

Rain in the sun,cold hands and put them away.

The husband of a friend was commissioned to write a song for The British Humanist Association's choir. It's called Gathering Round the Fire, and it's about how at this dark time of year we crave the warmth of human contact. I think it's rather a pleasing sentiment.

(The link is to the MP3 on Amazon -- I get a small commission if you choose to download it that way. It is available on iTunes, too, if that's more your thing.)

1. It's a bright day, so I take a basket of damp washing out to the line. But the air is full of cold needles and I am annoyed at having to take it all inside and hang it up again. Then I see sparks of sun-gilded rain and can't help but forgive the weather.

2. A hot mug of tea makes my cold hands tingle.

3. I never feel comfortable when the best wine glasses are by the sink. I like to wash them, dry and polish them and put them away.

Red, shut the door and resin.

1. On top of my almond macaroon there is a sliver of sweet scarlet glacè cherry.

2. Closing the door on the ice outside.

3. Our soap has a resin scent that I can't get enough of.

Let go, light in the snow and my marks.

1. Your over-excited spaniel wants to run off the lead into the snow with your over-excited son.

2. Tonight, light has frozen into the snow: in the Grove children are still building snowmen; and the shouts of sledging and snowboarding boys ring about the common.

3. I put my prints in untrodden snow leading up to our door.

White fur, not them and cast of four.

1. A second frosty day and every twig has a white fur coating.

2. At the market, the goats cheese man blows his fingers. The fishmongers hands are blue and red raw. I'm glad to be going home.

3. A Christmas present of a trip to the theatre, John Buchan's The 39 Steps. A cast of four chase a villainous German spy from London to Scotland via music hall and a shadow puppet show. On the playwriting course I did, we were often told that a script has more chance of being accepted if it will turn into a low-budget play. That might sound sad, but actually the challenge of working with a limited cast and simple (or non-existant) scenery inspires.

Salt, frost and post.

1. Early frosty morning outside the chip shop, he shakes spirals of salt on to the pavement.

2. Dark blue station railings with a velvet coat of frost.

3. A pile of thank-you letters ready to post.

The cold, hot food and a pat on the back.

1. The morning is so cold and sharp that my cheeks tingle and blush red.

2. Baking a potato in the microwave at work.

3. Katie-at-work describes how once she was in the ladies at a shopping centre when she heard a little boy a few cubicles along pipe up: 'Well done, Mummy, you did a nice big poo.'

Change in the weather, sleeping and quality.

1. Waking up to a frosty, foggy morning after several mild days. As the morning goes on, the mist burns off and a line of drops appears on the wire outside my window. I like sharp days because it feels like a proper winter with harsh suffering, instead of all this 'Isn't it mild' nonsense.

2. Taking a nap on the sofa after lunch.

3. The soft crunk that a good quality car door makes when I close it.