On Course for a Post a Day.

Here we are again. Winter doesn’t officially start until Friday and already the temperature is low enough to be worthy of remark even in January.

So here I am sitting on my hands in an attempt to warm them, occasionally releasing one of them to cradle my nose in the hope of effecting a little heat transference, and rubbing my legs to the same end. And this is the warmest room in the house, so it’s a little galling to have to leave it and go upstairs or into the kitchen because I know it will be appreciably colder there.

While I’m there I get even more chilled, and when I come back into the warmest room in the house I can’t get rid of the chill because the warmest room in the house isn’t warm enough to do the job.

But all of this is largely about how you handle it. There was a time when I was more tolerant of the cold. It’s only a few short years since I was in the habit of donning my tattered old winter coat and going out for a walk on colder nights than this, armed with a notepad to sketch the constellations and an eye to appreciate the light of a cold moon on a sleeping landscape. I think I’m well into my wimp phase now. Whatever next? Wealthier people than me simply move to Portugal.

I know, I know… I whinge about the winter every year, but I was looking for something to rant about in order to achieve thirty posts in thirty days. I like neat ends. One more to go.

Off to plod through more of Anne Brontë’s wordiness now. I do so wish she’d hurry on to the end of her diary and come to the point.