I think I must be the anti-Elsa. Because the cold really really bothers me.
Which is very definitely NOT GOOD at this time of year because it’s cold ALL of the time. Cycling to work, waiting at the school gates and particularly AT HOME.
Draft-friendly doors, crumbling window frames and a lack of heating (central or otherwise); it’s bad. The fact that everyone seems to have been born in a barn and thus incapable of CLOSING THE SODDING LIVING ROOM DOOR really doesn’t help matters. (The living room being one room that is heated and thus of imperative need to stay as toastie as possible.)
You’d think having your blood boil in rage would be warming, but apparently not. Instead it’s just hard to tell whether I’m trembling with fury or shivering with cold.
Boo’s bedroom the other night was a goosebump-inducing 13’c. Thank god for duvets and body heat. Getting up in the morning though is a battle of epic proportions. As if getting up when it’s still dark isn’t hard enough.
And as for showering…don’t even go there.* The bonus is that you don’t smell so bad when all sweat has retreated to your very core in a bid to regulate your body temperature.
(*Obviously, I do go there – I have to share the world with people with olfactory functions after all. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea about me. But it’s not fun.)
But my very most hated place to be at the moment is the kitchen! Even with gas burners roaring I’m still chilled to the bone. Surely that’s not right? The plug-in electric heater has given up the ghost after all of three weeks and, as we’ve got contractors in fixing the roof , the patio doors are left ajar whilst they’re here. The walls seem to absorb the chill like an 80s supermodel faced with a line of coke and a rolled up bank note.
It comes to a point where you can be boiling the kettle and feel tempted just to pour the scalding water over yourself in the hope of warming yourself. (Although, not really, obviously – more like when you’re at the top of tower or on the edge of a cliff and feel compelled to jump. Please say that that’s not just me!)
I’ve been trying to wrack my brain for a single positive reason for living in the domestic equivalent of an ice hotel:
That I can justify the copious consumption of warming cocoa (although I’m struggling more to justify the lashings of squirty cream added to the top)?
That I can positively look forward to work, where my little office is heated to sauna standards? Ahhhh, bliss!
That my seasonal (ok, perpetual, we’ve all seen the photos) layer of blubber now has a reason for its existence? Imagine how much colder I’d be if I was skinny!
Maybe I should just take the my lead from an ice hotel, actually, and justify a dependence on VODKA on my only-14-degrees-away-from-sub-zero house? Although that surely suggests how bleak it is when alcoholism is the positive spin!
At least if I was drunkenly comatose I wouldn’t care about the living room door being left open all of the time.