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We are talking about an eighth of an inch of snow, so real heavy stuff!

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JUST when I was worried about what to write about in this week's column, it decided to snow. Granted, not very exciting, but nevertheless, something out of the ordinary.

It was an especially exciting time for all the drivers who danced their way to work over a blanket of snow and ice on Monday morning.

There's nothing quite like that feeling of three wheels out of four scrabbling for traction as you navigate your way to work. What is normally a quiet journey, interrupted by nothing more than a sluggish cyclist, became like a campaign to reach the North Pole without running out of food, oxygen (petrol), or the will to live.

At least that's how it felt as I set out from the easterly parish of St Clement on what appeared to be tyres which were completely bald, and brakes which didn't work - or maybe it was just the ice.

By the time I reached Gorey, my nerves were in shreds, Gretel the Golf's clutch was at breaking point, and to top it all off, it looked as if I was about to swerve into the windows of the easterly branch of Pound World, thereby netting myself at least 500 bottles of shampoo and some bargain crisps.

There's something about dangerous situations which make me want to do one of two things. Firstly, cry, and secondly, run as far away as possible. Both options were running through my mind as the car suddenly developed super-duper previously unpossessed power-steering abilities. Such luxury!

It had also, it seemed, got an uncanny way of swerving towards much, much more expensive cars than I'd ever be able to afford to repair.

What is it about snow that brings out such glittering, luxury vehicles? In the space of twenty, bum-freezing, terror-filled minutes on the road, which seemed to stretch in a never ending evil-filled silver ribbon towards the east, I witnessed one Porsche, one Corvette, a selection of sleek Audis, and of course, various jeeps. In fact, everything bar a Rolls-Royce.

I drove up the hill feeling very poor and downtrodden, making a mental note to buy or steal a Land Rover as soon as time and cunning allowed.

And then something happened to shake me up and make me pull on the handbrake sharpish. It appeared that the man in front of me wasn't having much luck getting his car to cope with the gradient ahead and as his rear bumper edged ever nearer to Gretel's bonnet I felt my foot begin to shake on the clutch.

'No change there then' I can feel Jersey's male population saying. But this was pure fear, and I'll have you know I am an expert at waiting on the ramp in Jersey's thrilling selection of multi-storey car parks.

Then the clutch began to burn. I knew it was time for women and children to desert the sinking ship, or even the sliding Golf.

In one cowardly move, I pulled over to the side of the road, got out, locked the car, and tried to stand up.

As my new boots (bought in Brighton only days before) began to let in the ice and snow, I tried not to be materialistic. After all, I had my life. I wasn't about to end up embedded in a granite wall, as a kind of freak tourist attraction for the craning masses on an Islandwide tour. I was safe.

I could hear the luckless coach driver now.

'Sorry about this bit, folks. Avert your eyes if you're squeamish. Embedded in that fine granite wall there we have a fine example of what happens when a lady driver tries to rescue herself from these tricky snowy situations.'

And the coach would chug on down Gorey Hill, before returning to Mont Orgueil, and soon my raggedy boots would be forgotten by the visitors.

The wet boots had completely smooth soles, and I had to scrabble up the hill, searching for footholds.

Halfway up the hill I remembered my notebook was still locked in my car and items of value on view for any thieves who had a passion for stealing in the cold. They were, however, welcome to the gym kit and uncompleted tax return.

I was still sulking about my ruined footwear.

For someone who has made pretty loud noises about completing the Itex walk in the summer, I now found myself wondering why I said I'd bother. The half hour from Gorey to St Martin's Church was not the pleasant little hike I'd been counting on. There was no food en route. I had approximately £1.20 to my name, no boiled sweets, nothing to drink and a handbag which contained nothing more useful than a compact mirror.

There was no one to phone, because no one else had got to work either, and sending text messages, trying to walk and avoiding lorries rolling past didn't prove to be a happy mix. Trudging alone through the snow, I felt like I'd come to the end of the world.

What happened to the days when snow was fun, and all you needed were two lumps of coal and a carrot to make a snowman to be proud of? Here I was surrounded by the stuff, and yet I was easily resisting the temptation to carve any of it into an elaborate art form, such as a pair of swans, to idle away the time.

It's at times like those when your mind starts to wander. Apparently, people who trudge through the desert have been known to see mirages of water. I was sure I could see my home, but what if like a mirage, it just kept moving further and further away?

By the time I made it into the office, I wanted a medal, a cup of tea and the chance to sit down. Luckily, the sitting down is easily done in front of a computer, but I'm still waiting for the medal.

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