This is my yearly ‘I don’t know why we don’t all bloody hibernate,’ post. It’s the one where I muse on the fact that surely at some point in our evolutionary progress we were all spending the winter months tucked up in the equivalent of a cardboard box full of straw with our names painted on our backs.
I refuse to believe that this is not what we are meant to do at this time of year. The Danes even have a posh name for it, Hygge, which is basically snuggling in Ikea surrounded by pastry and tea lights. I knew I liked the Scandinavians for some reason.
This morning, after my brisk walk to and from school I was cold. I kept my coat on in the office while I did some writing, and then found that I was getting finger claws and numb toes, so added layers as I went.
Some time later I was still freezing, so I made myself a hot water bottle and snuggled up in the lounge under a blanket. I was still wearing all my layers, including my coat, my scarf, my hat, and by that point, my dressing gown over the top.
I then fell asleep for an hour and a half, woken only when the window cleaner rang to collect his money. I straggled to the front door still swathed in layers, whereupon he looked at me most strangely and I couldn’t figure out why. I was too busy staring at him. He was wearing shorts and a hoodie. He thought I was mad. I thought he was mad. We usually have a chat. Today we mutually backed away from each other.
I’m just about to retire to bed, where I shall be adding yet more layers to my ensemble until I resemble the old woman who swallowed a fly at about the point she swallowed a cow.
I bloody hate the winter.