As the temperature rises a little, keeping around the zero mark but making sweet curves above it throughout the day, my leg is improving, the itching lessening, and general well-being index lifting slowly towards the bottom of my comfort range. All is becoming well with me once more.
I used to love cold, snowy weather. I’d walk for miles in it, relishing the crunch of my boots on the crust. I’d happily play snowball fights, and build snowmen, large and small, and, given the appropriate circumstances, and need, do that man-thing and write my name in fresh snow in the most unacceptable way possible.
Now, I hide away from the cold, putting as many layers of protection between me and the absence of heat as possible. I can appreciate the beauty of snow still, just so long as I’m inside, looking out, the heating is working to specification, and I have an extra blanket to hand. When I have to open the door, for Dolly’s ins and outs, or to receive the post of a morning, I grudge every inch, hating the thought of losing all that lovely and expensive heat.
I’m a warm weather man now, and no mistake.
And yet, for all that, I’m sitting here wanting a nice big dish of … ice-cream.
What contrary creations we are, to be sure.
