A worm of robins

It's got to be one of the worst collective nouns - a murder of crows sounds tasty; even a pride of lions, though familiar, conjures up images of big cats lounging about following a satisfying feed.

But 'a worm of robins'? It's pathetic, and it's insulting to these cute, dainty, flighted creatures beloved of every child. Can I think of anything better - hmm... how about a redbreast of robins, or simply a breast of robins, or a redness of robins...?

In any case, a worm of robins is the sight that greeted me this morning as I opened my curtains. They were darting in and out of a large bush which overhangs a garden wall opposite my flat.

Until this morning, the bush was covered in snow, but last night's rain washed it all away. Thinking about it, I've hardly heard a bird tweet in the past week - in fact, I've hardly seen a bird at all.

After more than a week of slipping, sliding and shivering, Brighton is starting to wake up. The schools are open again, the buses are running and the snow is almost gone.

Towards the end of the White Days, people started to get used to the cold conditions and accept them as almost normal. People started to venture out sans hat, scarf or gloves because the temperature outside was 2 degrees above freezing, and therefore comparatively mild.

We all started to realise why - whether this is a myth or not - the Inuits have 32 different words for snow. We learned the kind you can walk on (crunchy snow) and the kind you cannot (glass snow); the kind you from which you can free your car (soft slush) and the kind which keeps it stuck (thick, hard ice).

We learned which of us could march fearlessly along slippery pavements as if there were no snow, and which of us, yet young, plodded tentatively like pensioners scared of breaking a hip.

And we learned where we could keep warm. If not at home, then the pub - congratulations to the Ranelagh for its warm fire, and the Collonnade for its central heating.

Pubs have suffered during these bleak times, but, as usual, the brighter members of the licensed fraternity have come into their own. Congratulations to the St James for its warming apple rum punch.

Despite their efforts, prices continue to keep customers away - a pint of real ale is now commonly £3 or more. It's possible to cook a very tasty meal for that, and I recently bought three litres of cranberry juice at the Co-op for £2.50.

Regular drinkers may care to note that two pints a day in a pub, while roughly speaking within the unit limits set by government health chiefs, will cost you £180 a month. People looking to economise will either knock booze on the head or pick up a couple of tinnies from the supermarket to take home and watch in front of the telly.

I've been working recently for a property firm which sells pubs - and it reports booming sales - mostly to developers or entrepreneurs who want to turn them into flats, restaurants or shops. Pubs are doing themselves out of business, though of course they will blame the taxman.

The recent cold spell will be the death-knell for many pubs, coinciding with the month of January, when people are looking to tighten the purse-strings.

Next time round, we may remmeber which type of snow we can walk on, but we will have lost some of our favourite places to keep warm.