St Grace and the dwarves had had a 2 night long pyjama party and 2 days worth of bounding in Jordanian snowdrifts, while we were in Jerusalem.
The country had all but ground to a halt by the time J and I drew up into a drift outside our apartment. At this point, I was not missing our vermillion Chevy which would have been buried by now.
We pranced about with the dwarves all afternoon and then ventured out to 'danser la fin de l'annee' with a fabulous French couple who have five children. They are teenagers now, but at one point the couple had five children under six years old. No words can explain our respect for them. And they are still beautiful and laid back.
The dress code was The Artist, from the film. So J and I ventured out in the driving snow, J in a velvet jacket with stick on moustache, me in velvet jumpsuit and wellies. Every five metres there was a deserted car with a pile of snow on the roof, and most moving cars were driving the wrong way up the street with hazard lights on. We crept on, knowing it would be worth reaching our destination. We were the only non-French people at the party, and we danced until 2am until I noticed that J, at least 5 whiskies and a few shots of something unidentifiable down, was conversing in either Arabic or Farsi with most people, and I suggested that I drove home.
We made it, despite having to weave between fallen trees, and at one point having to unhook ourselves from a dangling telegraph cable which had wrapped itself around our wing mirrors.
Not much movement from J the following morning. By 4pm he'd recovered and after intermittent power cuts all day, we spent a happy half hour jumping in snow drifts with the dwarves until the wailing about the cold feet got too much and we retreated inside to watch the scene from a relatively warm apartment.
The country had all but ground to a halt by the time J and I drew up into a drift outside our apartment. At this point, I was not missing our vermillion Chevy which would have been buried by now.
We pranced about with the dwarves all afternoon and then ventured out to 'danser la fin de l'annee' with a fabulous French couple who have five children. They are teenagers now, but at one point the couple had five children under six years old. No words can explain our respect for them. And they are still beautiful and laid back.
The dress code was The Artist, from the film. So J and I ventured out in the driving snow, J in a velvet jacket with stick on moustache, me in velvet jumpsuit and wellies. Every five metres there was a deserted car with a pile of snow on the roof, and most moving cars were driving the wrong way up the street with hazard lights on. We crept on, knowing it would be worth reaching our destination. We were the only non-French people at the party, and we danced until 2am until I noticed that J, at least 5 whiskies and a few shots of something unidentifiable down, was conversing in either Arabic or Farsi with most people, and I suggested that I drove home.
We made it, despite having to weave between fallen trees, and at one point having to unhook ourselves from a dangling telegraph cable which had wrapped itself around our wing mirrors.
Not much movement from J the following morning. By 4pm he'd recovered and after intermittent power cuts all day, we spent a happy half hour jumping in snow drifts with the dwarves until the wailing about the cold feet got too much and we retreated inside to watch the scene from a relatively warm apartment.
I can't imagine snow after the heat of when I was there. Lovely pics xx
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