Winter has arrived with a bite like a lock-jawed bulldog. The lawn is skid-mark brown, and scratchy as a bag of crisps underfoot. Our leaf-strewn swimming pool is dirty as a tar pit.
Inside it’s five degrees colder than out. Our house has stone floors that work like under floor heating in reverse. Your breath steams inside the house so bad you can blow smoke rings. Toilet seats are so cold you wail like Chewbacca as your bare buttocks hit the rim.
Nothing to do but swathe myself in thermals and headscarves, til I look like a Bedouin Michelin man. Whoever said winter clothes were sexy? Trying to rip that many layers off someone would be like trying to ravish an onion.
I did read somewhere that the best way to cure hypothermia is to climb into a plastic bag with a naked women. Sadly in my post code naked women are rather thin on the ground, and due to a lack of rohypnol and planning I lack a giggling blonde teen with puppy fat and a lascivious lack of morals that’d make a Cairo pimp gasp. Sigh. My bedroom remains cold as a Methodist church.