I’m currently engaged in a battle with the elements. It’s properly cold out now but I’m too tight to put the heating on. Instead I’m piling layer upon synthetic layer and creating my own little portable sauna. As we speak, the clothes count stands at vest, jammie top and bottoms, woolly jumper, bigger woolly cardigan, scarf, ski socks and fleecy boot slippers. I’m like a smaller, less groomed version of Sasquatch. Don’t believe me? Here’s a tiny little chopped off pinkie of proof:
This is a look you can only really afford to indulge yourself in if, as I do, you live alone.
Me-time like this has real benefits (viz, time to think) and there’s been plenty of it this year. But I’m starting to think that maybe it can do funny things to a person, and that that person is me. I would’ve said till now that my behaviour generally falls within the normal spectrum of eccentric – I can’t be the only one who crawls around in their undies so the neighbours can’t see me getting clean jeans out the ironing basket – but I’ve lately become aware that it may be starting to head off the bonkers chart. The other day I caught myself doing the slosh. There wasn’t even any music on.
And there’s more. I broke one of my defaults the other night after I’d had a tiny festive party. I didn’t do the dishes before going to bed because (a) every plate and pot in the house had been used up and (b) I was doing a different kind of slosh that night and being drunk in charge of sink full of glass and knives is never a good idea. Which is why breakfast next day was left over curry (yum!) eaten from a teacup. Worst of all, at lunchtime yesterday I asked out loud, not unreasonably, “Will we have soup?”. Except there was no-one else around. It would appear we is turning into Gollum.
I’m not sure where all this is going, but if I’m going to go mad, I might as well be warm. Turn the heating up, precious.