I'm dreaming of a white . . .

. . . Easter?

Well, it made a change, I s'pose. And worth it for having to defend the continuing existence of the Easter Bunny, in the face of incontrovertible evidence that he does not.

So, each egg is hidden at the end of a line of large shoe prints? Well, yes, of course the Easter Bunny wears size eleven trainers - his feet would get cold in the snow if he just lolloped about on his big ol' naked furries.

Here's the garden on Easter morning, with two boys and a sled. The walk to church was one long snow-ball fight, and I rather suspect that the majority of the prayers offered up by the junior members of the congregation that Easter morning was for more snow please.

But it was not to be - as a very wise priest once said to me, Of course God answers every prayer. Most of the time, the answer is No.

So, hail and sleet and a visit from Grandma and Grandpa V. took us through to the end of our Easter weekend.

I was amused by two of Elaine's children weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth at the prospect of eating food that actually tasted of something - Kit's latest thing is Sweet Chilli Sauce. With everything. At least this is instead of, instead of as well as, tomato ketchup. But he did rather go off on one when we suggested that he sould eschew said sauce as Aunt Julia's Easter lamb stew looked quite delicious enough.

This was my contribution to the day (over and above the tantrumming child. Well, you do what you can, don't you? And it was Easter, after all.) and very interesting it was too.