A marvellous and wonderful thing has happened.
My father has put the heating on in the house. I suspect it may be the influence of my Aunt; my Mother just used to suffer in silence. Actually, on reflection, she didn't; but my Dad had this steely gaze that he's lost over the years.
And so now I'm too hot. All those winters spent in my parents' Victorian house (replete with original features such as draughty windows, plumbing that makes a noise like an old person's digestion after a plate of sprouts and doors with enough space between door and frame for a small child to climb through) have hardened me against the cold.
Many was the morning that I'd leap out of bed and press my face to the window, hoping the postman would bring me letters and find myself stuck to the glass. I'd have to beg my brother to fetch some warm water to prise me off.
Other days we'd peel the curtains off the window pane with a delightful ripping noise where condensation had frozen. I also had music that I could only play in the winter because the intense cold meant that the tape player ran at a different speed and warbled a bit.
Eeeeh, but we were happy. Even when my attempts to turn my brother into a superhero using my chemistry set nearly got us a visit from the social worker.
I forget where I was going with this, but allow me a moment of nostalgia before I embark on an Ex rant later on tonight...
