I love the Seasons. I love the Snow - looking at it that is, before its beauty fades, the whiteness turns to black, the magic pristine crystals slush. But I don't like shoveling it any more; nor can I stay out long in the cold of winter. This darn Raynaud's just about kills my fingers, nose and toes - oh, and ear-lobes too. (I won't mention what else.)

But it's pretty though, woudn't you say? - falling like breakfast shreddies when grand-kids visit. And that takes me back to feeling like a kid again, which falling snow without still does within.

It may be, wrote G.K. Chesterton, that God is the only child left in the universe. It may be that, with almost giddiness and joy, God greets each new day, each sunrise, with the child's excited wonder at something special, something new, though adults have become jaded by a routine sameness.

'Do it again!' they say. 'Do it again!' says God.