This morning I got a steam burn trying to warm my hands over the kettle as it boiled. The tone around my house has recently moved beyond mere 'cold' into the morbid apathy of encroaching death, where all who enter feel impelled to plunge into bleak obscurity by something, be it the damp chill of every item of clothing you allow to sully your warm skin, the fearsome sight of your breath fogging perceptively from your lips when you first open your eyes in the morning or the strange dislocation from limbs, from fingers, toes, noses- all extremities, in other words, that cool and freeze and tingle back suddenly to life when you move them around.
As the week segues into Christmas, and the tawdry glitter of the tinsel and plastic Christmas ornaments I hung off nails in our sitting room walls fails to warm us with a transcedental inner glow, the easy sleep of death beckons benignly. Which brings me to my point: can I stay in yours tonight? I'm sure the heating will be fixed by tomorrow, so it'll only be for the one night and I'm a really polite house guest. I'll even cook you eggs in the morning. Please? If only to save me from the fate of waking up dead tomorrow. Share the love. It is Christmas after all.