A life in letters: Jack Frost

My only encounters with Jack Frost, the playful spirit of winteriness were through his artistic endeavours on the windows of our house in Westerton, which had steel frames, single glazing and no central heating. On cold mornings, we’d waken to icy panes covered with delicate, fern-patterned artistry. ‘Jack Frost,’ my parents would declare, using the words I think to describe both the perpetrator and his handiwork. As the business-like coal fire began to raise the room temperature, Frost’s gallery dissolved in sad, streaming teardrops.