Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I've been a bit distracted from my laptop by the incessant coughing, sneezing and general wailing emitting from my own self for the past fortnight. As I don't really believe in illness, I've been casting around for the suspect that inflicted this misery upon me. Was it that dodgy sniffer on the tube? The red-faced baby who came to brunch? Sick-building syndrome? In the end, I think it's just pure cold. Cold in our house that is. Apparently, we live in the coldest house in the country. The frost in the garden in the morning is beautiful, but less enticing when it is still there at lunchtime – especially when it has melted in every other garden around us. If I left the butter in the fridge it would be easier to spread on my toast. I know that our kitchen never even approaches the accepted 'room temperature' because the olive oil is permanently cloudy (read the label at the back). We light the fire, which is bliss, but requires a Hansel & Gretel forest to keep it burning. Plus you can only warm up (even scorch) one side of you at a time. Hot water bottles just mean that you either have a lump of scalding plastic on your legs or on your stomach, while the rest of you tries to thaw out. I'm going skiing next week. I think this is my version of a holiday in the sun.