Chill in the air
For the last three days the pavement to the front of our house has been covered in frost. Only today has it started to thaw. The permafrost, Shana called it. Sounds about right to me. OK, we might not have had any ice storms round here recently. And describing our location as the tundra could be taking it a bit too far: the big sycamore across the road indicates that we are definitely still below the tree-line.
But whenever the temperature drops below parky degrees centigrade you can bet it won’t be long before you hear the odd hint coming from my direction. Subtle suggestions that it might soon be “time to ‘don The Woolly’”; this being a thick black chunky-knit cardie — a prezzie from Shana — in which I envelop myself, usually clutching a steaming mug of tea, while making loud Brrrr!!! noises and looking decidedly pathetic.
Whoever my distant ancestors were (and so far I’ve only managed to trace them as far back as the late 19th century) I suspect that the Frumplington family tree did not include many prominent outdoorsmen (although there were probably plenty of wimps). I am, therefore, despite the fact that:
- I used to own a pair of camouflage trousers many years ago and,
- Once bought a pair of thermal gloves from campers’ and hikers’ top shop, Millets,
most likely not related to the great Ray Mears.
And if he’s reading this (hello Ray!) he’s probably mighty relieved that I’m not.
Brrr! Can someone turn the heating on for a few minutes? It’s freeezing in here.