Life under fall-out conditions

I grew up in an isolated farmhouse in South Wales; a teensy village called Llangattock, in fact, although I gather it's a little larger these days. I was ten years old when I fled to boarding school, returning only under protest for holidays.
Of all my memories for this period, the most powerful is full of unpleasant sensory imagery - to me now. As I recall, when I was a child I found the prospect of snow somewhat thrilling; the texture, the colour changes it could bring about in skin, temperament and landscape. The possibilities.

I loved, and still adore, ice-skating. The first time I went was with my father; I remember standing nervously by the side of the rink, swaddled in layers of hand-me down jumpers, with my mouth half open beneath the knit cap as I watched total strangers glide across the ice. I spent the usual hour or three falling down in between alternating my death grip on the wooden rail or my fathers index finger. I must only have been five years old, six tops. I got a little ambitious after managing a complete lap of the rink without taking a tumble, and asked, "Do you think, if you skated long enough in one place, you could make it like nobody else had ever skated there?"

I still feel that. I loved snow for exactly the same reason; but our love affair had a life expectancy totally dependent on my childhood.

My particular memory of snow, however, is from the winter it snowed so hard we couldn't leave the house for a week. The front door was frozen shut; we were climbing in and out of the windows all week. I used to do that anyway, because I was a decidedly odd child, but this was legitimate clambering across window sills, and it was almost as thrilling as snow that came over the tops of your wellies and weather that froze the big duck pond over to the extent we could skate on it; in trainers or riding boots or wellies, and with one eye cocked towards the house. Because that was considerably less legit than the windows.

I have never been an early riser. That first morning of snow I was woken by the onslaught of my two big brothers, armed with snow scraped from window sills and shoving it determinedly down the front of my blue and yelllow checked pyjamas. This first day, I was the victim, coming awake with a start and a handful of Russian swear words - established for the simple reason neither of my parents understood it. I've since heard most children choose French for this, but my question is, why? Russian is the greatest language ever to swear in, and there are so many options. I nagged and begged and cajoled many many of these choice words and phrases out of the Russian au pair, alternating between tears and sweetness until she agreed. Surprisingly, she wasn't hugely keen on my mother. I was five years old. After that first morning, I learned once and for all the value of forging alliances.

Through my determined machinations, I didn't fall victim to ambush again that week.