How deep is the snow?

How deep is the snow? I wondered, unable to venture out for a second day for fear of falling and thus, on account of extreme age, breaking into a smithereen of bones. I dug out some welly boots and, armed with a ruler, stepped outside, dragging my feet through the thick virgin snow on the tundra decking. Reaching the table I lunged my ruler vertically down into the the deep blanket lying on top of it. 23 cms was the answer. I then bent and jabbed the said ruler several times into the cold squeaky whiteness around my feet. 23 cms also. It was then that I noticed that I was wearing a long woollen skirt which had become thickly coated with great blobs of glue-like snow.

Back indoors, the welly boots refused to leave my feet and, during the struggle that ensued, seemingly more snow was delivered onto our carpet than was lying on our entire back garden. Eventually the welly boot tussle was won and I mooched off to change my skirt and put on my indoor boots - worn all winter to stop chilblains - but it never works. I then rooted around to find a proper ruler which I measured against the snow-measuring one and found that the snow was 9 inches deep. When I told my husband he just nodded and smiled. Through this agreeable response I realised he hadn't heard a word and that his ears were plugged into the cricket. 'Looks like we'll lose,' he groaned, 'the three worst batsmen are left and there are two sessions to go.'

'Just two sessions,' I scoffed, guessing that a session might conceivably be longer than an over. 'Of course our three worst batsmen can hold out - it will be a draw.'

And it was a draw. Respect!!

'Nine inches,' he said later, 'are you sure?!

It may just have been a coincidence that he was looking down at his flies area as he spoke. I often find that the time-lag that occurs between me speaking and he responding quite often leads to misunderstandings. 'Yes, that's 23cms.' I said.

'That's about it,' he replied.