Worst still with the ongoing melt is the new one-and-a-half lane road, where crazy drivers - and they're all crazy around here - think "oh, there's just enough room for my 4x4 monster truck to undertake that giant people-mover". Much swerving and honking occurs, and all around attempt to cheat death once again.
In summary: it was a weekend to keep off the roads, so we took the metro into DC. This was only slightly better, with the platform signs in those Stygian depths telling us it was 27 minutes until the next train, but one did arrive two minutes later and we only had to change once on the supposedly direct line.
Our destination was an art gallery. Where better to take a cooped up toddler than an art gallery? But it was warm, Hannah's been wanting to go there for ages, and it's a Smithsonian so it's free.
It also turned out to be very small and very full of people. They did have some nice things to look at, although everything was geared to attract the clammy hyperactive hands of three-year-olds; the huge anthills made of tiny squares of unglued cardboard, the thin threads of a massive rainbow harp, the intricately-woven stick houses. The place was staffed by curators wearing badges that read: "Ask Me About Shouting At People Not To Touch Stuff All Day".
We lasted almost twenty minutes in there, half of which was spent filling in a questionnaire that a nice, non-shouty staff member asked us to help with. Pete, it seems, is more of an engineer than an artist (actually more of a demolition expert, to be precise) so it was back to Duplo as soon as we got home.
Out came the sun and dried up all the snow, I hope.
But is it art? Yeah, probably.
Preparing to huff and puff and blow it all down.
Keep don't touching!
Art is all about the perspective you take on it.
And this is what the ice cream in our neighbourhood looks like. I know you're not meant to eat the yellow snow, but what about the grey and black?
And then it began snowing again. And I began screaming.