I set off from the office to my writers’ workshop on my bicycle this evening. A few snowflakes were fluttering around lazily, but nothing in particular to worry about, I thought. The evening passed off well and, as usual, we shifted to a nearby brasserie for a drink and a bite to eat. The snow was now falling a little more purposefully, but the roads were reasonably clear. At ten-thirty I set off home. I pedalled the first part, and then some serious weather set in. I don’t know if there can be a downpour of snow, but within a few minutes the previously clear roads were clogged and I knew I would have to wheel my bike the rest of the way home. The snow would have been enough, but then a powerful, swirling wind blew up. The snow flakes, driven forcefully, stung my eyeballs and since I didn’t have goggles or glasses, I had to keep my eyes half-closed. By the time I got to the top of the rue de la Loi I realised that I was navigating in a fully-fledged blizzard. The snowfall had already reduced visibility, but the swirling wind was disorienting so that, daft though this sounds, there were moments when I felt almost as though I was lost – and this was on rue de la Loi (where no cars were passing anymore). Conditions away from the exposed upper road were better and I soon made my way home, but the scribbler in me realised that I had just been given a free insight into how easy it is to get lost in a snowstorm. Even if you can see, familiar landmarks are obscured or buried and the driving snow means that you can rarely look up to, or see, the horizon. A swirling wind completes the disorientation.