The same wind that blew a hundred Decembers ago rattles the shutters of the dark drawing room, and all of a sudden I'm aware of the hundred or more Christmas Eves and Days that have been spent here. The smell of turkeys and geese roasting, wafts up from the kitchen, mingled with the murmuring coives of maids and housekeepers. I shut my eyes and I imagine the room, glittering with other people's holly wreaths.
Golden baubles sparkle on a tree behind me. There are hurried, joyful footsteps on the stairs. Somebody is singing a carol to himself. Behind my eyelids, I can see children unwrapping ribboned gifts, new dolls' houses and carved figures. I could swear that a cleric walks past the slightly-ajar door, beckoned by the ringing of Christmas bells. A mother looks slightly harassed as she tweaks her children's best outfits. Somebody sits at the piano, their fingers fluttering like hummingbirds' wings as they produce 'Deck the Halls'. A fire crackles in the hearth, bathing the room in a soft red glow. The shutters are open and a white sheet of snow is forming outside.
Then the phone rings, my eyes shoot open and I'm back in the present, realising with a smile that the house is about to collect another set of green and red memories.
It fell like rain, but slower. So white it was almost blinding. To walk out into it was like walking into the great beyond. It seemed to never end, it just kept falling, falling, falling. If you looked around, all you could see was white. When you stuck your hand out, in seconds it would be covered like a magnet with metal. And when you walked, it wasn't like you were walking; it was like you were floating or gliding across the ground. Then, for no particular reason, you fell to your knees. You felt it on your your shins and feet. You picked some up with your hands. It was cold, like an ice lolly that had just come out of the freezer. You started to play with it, and realized that you could do anything out here.