A blast of cold weather pressure from the Atlantic swept in November and sent the temperature below freezing. There were snow drifts in the Scottish Highlands, sending trucks and traffic of all sorts off the roads. The snow swirled down over the Pennines, into the West Country and the Home Counties. 

“It’s a winter morning,” I said and moments later the snow began to fall in our corner of London. It didn’t lay on the ground but just shook some warning flurries at the city, ‘Be careful’ the full clouds seemed to say. ‘We are just up the road, out of the bright lights that heat your city, but we could stay here if we chose to.’ Our little bird bath froze over and the remaining plants on the terrace did not move, as if afraid they might crack in the cold. November’s hit was just the forerunner of December’s offerings. These are winter days, errands are done quickly before we come home, almost grateful to have to stay indoors and rummage in the cupboards. These are days for soup and to bring out the boardgames to play with families as the American Thanksgiving holiday reaches us wherever we are. And we will be in Utrecht with that little family for the weekend of Cluedo and gratitude.

But board games of a far more serious nature are being invented and played in Geneva. The Presidents of America and Russia are staying out of the fray, lobbing spit balls of scrunched old ideas across telephone lines as their hatchet men of the moment re-write the rules of this game. The Ukrainian President keeps Europe and the rest of the world focused with repeated stark reminders of the underlying truth of this conflict, rejecting Putin’s demands for “legal recognition to what he has stolen”. So the chess board – if it is a chess game – remains open – leaving the bishops and knights to battle in the castle while the pawns fall and fail to return. Rules are being made up as this game unfolds. Scrappy bits of paper with early notes are tapped out on keyboards and folded into the games with the first language of the rules appearing in Russian then transcribed into American. All of Europe see this is an uneven match with the French President Macron clear that without deterrence in the Ukraine plan, ‘Russia will come back’. The first blue print was not so much who did what to whom but who gets to take this land and who has to give it up and forfeit its army, land and alliances. Its a crippling squeeze and is played out for real as ruthlessly as any child takes over Mayfair or Park Avenue on the Monopoly board. As I write, there are moves and counter-moves reported with the US and Ukraine continuing to create an “updated and refined peace framework” to end the war while the European countries proposed their own radical alternatives. Thanksgiving and Christmas will come and go before the drone-dropped bombs cease to fall on The Ukraine. The American President is practicing his TACO moves tweeting that ‘Great progress is being made’ while the Russian one lowers his bear head and continues to charge, bombing civilian targets in the Ukraine.

While Europe carries much of the financial burden of Ukraine’s continued resistance the US can’t find the keys to its conscience and continues to hold back resources. It seems that papa Putin still has a firm hand grasped around the collar of that naughty US president. But every time when we watch this three-party card trick, we miss where it has gone. Who holds the cards as Russia the United States and Europe play, moving the ace that is the Ukraine with its oil and wheat. President Zelensky repeats for anyone who needs to hear it again that “The crux of the entire diplomatic situation is that it was Russia, and only Russia, that started this war, and it is Russia, and only Russia, that has been refusing to end it.” We learn all we can each day while at the same time knowing that bombing has not stopped in any of the squabbles and wars around the world.

It is pear season. There are fresh pears in the market and the ones I chose from the grocer are the perfect ripeness for today’s desert of poached pears in wine with cardamon and saffron. I sit at the table peeling them and two have long stalks – so long that I can imagine them just plucked from the tree as the twig with leaves say goodbye.

Ten years ago we bought a Living Christmas tree for a Christmas here in The Cottage. And then – as one tries to do after Christmas – we planted it out in a little corner of the pavement at the end of the parking lot and to our amazement it took hold, the roots going down and finding hidden nourishment, reminding us all that London – like every city – is only as deep as a cement paving stone.

On Sunday, we went out again and put lights and cheap shiny ornaments on it – and it is happy. As the nights begin to close in by tea time the little tree shines, bringing a smile to every passerby. 

This has been A Letter From. A Broad Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side and as always supported by Beatrice from MurchStudio