Chill

It's a gloriously sunny 20-degree day outside.

All my Irish readers just went "Aaahhhh" in jealous approval. All my American readers went "Brr" in sympathy - or empathy depending on where they are. Twenty degrees farenheit, you see. That's minus six Celcius. Yes. A bit chilly.

I think, as a child, I had the idea that the temperature could only ever be below freezing in the middle of the night when everyone was tucked up warm in their beds. Freezing point, or "zero" as we funny Europeans call it, was the mark of civilization. Only Eskimos, probably, in their cosy igloos, lived where it was that cold on a regular basis.

Apparently I'd never heard of Canada. Or the northern half of the US. Or Russia or even Central Europe, I suppose. (Actually, I was very vague about what and where Canada was. It just never came up. I had no idea that Anne Shirley lived there and that it was not the USA, for instance, and when I read a book set in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, I assumed those were makey-uppey names. Because really. (And I'd just like to illustrate how far I've come by telling you that I just spelled that right first time without checking.))

Anyway, it's very cold outside but pretty nice inside, and I've made the concession of wearing a thermal vest (that's not a vest, if you're American - undershirt?) and I've got my knee socks on and I'm quite toasty, thank you. I'm sure I'm not doing this right, but in this part of the country weather like this doesn't happen often and doesn't last very long, and for all that I complain about the summer weather (and yes, I do complain), I'm happy that we don't live in Minnesota or Montana or even Maine at this time of the year.