My nose is cold. My heart warm. My fingers like fat sausages inside wet woolen gloves. And my feet in thin socks inside wet wellington boots that are two sizes too big for me. Memories.
I never thought I’d be battling with the elements when writing. It’s not like I haven’t an imagination, though. And it’s not like its the first time either. But somehow it had been pushed to the back of my mind. That is until the weather turned recently.
So I wrapped up my little dunnies (now big fat donnies) in warm folds of a jumper and donned a woolly hat, nursed a steaming cup of tea and turned up my music and paced uncertainly in my living room like an Eskimo waiting for a storm to pass.
After an hour or so I felt something shift in the sausages for fingers department. They couldn’t type on the keyboard if they had slower response times they may thaw out in a week after being in a hot oven. I dramatise a little for effect, but you get the picture. And my nose feels like opening a freezer door and getting that breeze of cold air on your skin but permanently. I also have a cold and am sporting a dew drop.
So what changed?
I think that there must have been some warm air arrive outside my windows because now I have taken off the wooly hat.
The music is still playing and despite the lack of dramatic inspiration from above I am typing again. Job done.