As I write, the snow is fast approaching Yorkshire but hasn't quite arrived.
But as I stood alongside another rugby dad at micro rugby first thing this morning, it appeared that the damp stuff had indeed appeared overhead.
My nameless pal was talking about something or other when, mid-sentence, he interrupted his flow to announce that the first snowflake had landed on his face.
It hadn't.
I had tried to make a possibly crucial intervention but, instead of wisdom shooting out of my mouth, some spit did.
I didn't fess up and simply nodded and expressed regret that I hadn't brought snow shoes for the long trek home.
Say nothing.
