Off the Cliff

Snow began as I was returning from physio yesterday and continued through the night. Vaguely thought yesterday evening that maybe I should shovel what had fallen but thought nah, four inches / several centimetres, not worth it. Ha ha. A lot more than that: probably close to a foot. Good Neighbour's snowblower cleared the sidewalk but I had to do my steps and walkway. Elbows and back as ever screamed blue murder but at least I *could* lift the shovel which I couldn't three years ago, during our last major dump. As then, I suspect I'll be housebound for a good week unless the bobcats get out. Which they couldn't today because it's garbage week and the bins are adding to the snow blockage. I am not sanguine about clearance with a weekend and a holiday Monday coming up, and more snow on Saturday. As it is, I had to go back out in the afternoon because drivers clearing their cars dumped it on, what else, the sidewalk.

One drawback of Wentworth being a romance writer as well is that the love interest will never be the murderer. We must have our happi endo. If anyone would frustrate that expectation I might read them, except that I suspect writers who do that are all hard-boiled or noir guys: emphasis on the guys.