Eighteen degrees in Portland, and the sidewalks and roofs are slick with ice. The air is stiff and sharp. Tires crunch on chunks of frozen slush; foot passengers skid up and down the hill, heads down, hoods pulled tight. The city feels Bleak House-ian, "and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill."

But I'll be leaving it for 24 hours or so. I'm off this morning to fetch the college boy home for the holidays, and we'll stop at my in-laws overnight before rushing back tomorrow morning so that I can slap a second coat of paint onto the kitchen walls and ceiling before Tom starts tiling this weekend.

I doubt you'll hear from me tomorrow. You'll just have imagine me embarked on my boring car ride across the wilds of southern New Hampshire, listening half-heartedly to podcasts and drinking lukewarm tea from a travel mug. At least I won't be sliding up and down the mountains during a snowstorm . . . that is to say, I don't think I will. One never knows about mountain weather.