We had a brief encounter with snow this week. Too bad it only lasted about an hour before it turned back into rain.
And you’d probably think all of Norway is buried under a thick layer of snow by now, right?

Wrong.

What we got was barely 1 cm—just enough to turn the roads into a thin sheet of ice. Not fun at all when you can’t even go sledging. It simply creates the perfect conditions for breaking bones you’d much rather keep intact.

And despite the cold weather outside, I’ve somehow ended up with plant lice on the pepper plants in my kitchen. In winter. I genuinely did not see that one coming.

So now I’m debating whether to kick the plants outside. Only I’m not sure who would die first:
The pepper plant or the lice.

Probably the plant—knowing my luck.

But of course, for the sake of scientific experimentation, one of them will have to be sacrificed. (Or maybe it’s just my evil side that delights in the thought of sending the plant lice out into the frost.)

It all feels minor, though. I’ve been reading an Icelandic book about the volcanic eruptions on Vestmannaeyjar, where homes and livelihoods were destroyed when lava and ash swallowed entire neighbourhoods.

Puts our little weather inconveniences into perspective, doesn’t it?
I’m suddenly very grateful I don’t live near a volcano.

Still, the cold does have one clear advantage: it’s the perfect excuse to curl up in my favourite chair with a good book. Even if that book happens to be about Icelandic eruptions. Fortunately the author slipped in a murder mystery or two, which makes it almost impossible to put down. So that’s where I plan to remain until the temperature climbs above 10 degrees again. Or maybe 5 degrees is more realistic. (Celsius, of course.)

(And if you’re wondering which book I’m talking about—it’s Ashes to Dust by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir.)