A change has happened in the UK this week, causing much huddling over cups of tea and mass wearing of hair-crumpling hats: yes, over the course of the last two days temperatures have done what my breasts did years ago: plummeted.
This morning the thermometer hit a number that is meteorologically (try writing that when you’re high on caffeine) known as Oh-This-Is-Bollocks-My-Arse-Has-Gone-Blue, and now the nation is on high alert because more than ten whole flakes of snow are expected to fall in the vicinity of London some time in the next 24 hours, and there’s a miniscule chance that they might (whisper it) *settle*.
That’ll be the transport network fucked for several days, then.
Of course, all this coldness is just exactly what it should be doing at this time of year. It’s, erm, Winter. But the speed of change has come as a bit of a shock to the system: on Tuesday it was still warm enough to go running outside in buttock-skimming shorts, without requiring medical assistance to treat hypothermia.
Fast forward three days and it’s now so cold that one of my nipples just froze off and shattered on the kitchen floor, and when I go running later I’ll be sporting my catastrophically unsexy Winter ‘look’ of running-legging-thingies, two thermal tops, gloves, a balaclava, a woolly hat and six hot water bottles strapped around my waist.
If I could bring a roaring fire along for the ride I would.
Of course, there are perfectly simple ways to survive, and even enjoy, this kind of weather, most of which I learned from the hardy East European side of my family who regularly live through three months of minus thirty degrees and metres of snow….and still manage to get to school and use a car without winning an award for Outstanding Bravery And Competence…
One technique is to drink so much strong alcohol from the moment you break the ice on the duvet to the point at which you collapse in a snowy hedge, that your body can’t register it’s cold and the redness of your nose radiates enough heat to warm a small village.
Another is to kill lots of animals who were sensibly born with nice, furry coats, chop it all off and then cover every inch of your body in it.
Yes, yes, I know it’s not PC over here, but it sure as hell works: it’s impossible to feel the cold when you’ve got fox-fur knickers and you’re wearing a whole bear.
Other alternatives include spending all day working up a sweat by chopping wood, and frequenting brothels – but neither of those fit very well with a day in the office. Personally I think foxy pants are the way forward.
Tomorrow I’m going to a wedding and intend to use as many of these techniques as possible to get through the day without losing a limb to frostbite: after half a bottle of schnapps for breakfast I shall make my way to the chapel wearing four minks, a chinchilla and an elk, split some logs while we wait for the bride to arrive and then run off to the vestry with any available men I can find. If that doesn’t work I’ll eat my fur hat.
Wrap up folks, keep warm and enjoy the snow. Winter is here 🙂