Cold As Ice

This morning, I woke up, still feeling stiff and unhealthy. Remember what I said about London cold being that slightly more bitter than cold anywhere else I’ve been? Well, it’s definitely true today. I usually walk around the house in a top, jeans and bare feet, but as I write this, I am wearing my boots and a knit jumper over my clothes.

I feel like an icicle.

Everything stings and aches and I just want a long lie-down in a warm room, with a duvet, good food and a good movie.

I’ve had the weirdest fantasies. They don’t just involve sex in front of a fireplace, they also involve sex in front of a fireplace while wearing wooly mittens and thermal joggings. I dream about warmth and comfort.

And sex. Like, lots of it.

Sharing body heat is absolutely marvelous. When you’re in snowy plains, the way to warm up is to strip down and get into a sleeping bag together. I’d say that’s efficient enough for me. It would work in London too, I think. All over central London, random tents would be set up with sleeping bags in them. You can just crawl into them and snuggle up in the buff to the one you love.

It’s an idea you won’t see on Dragons Den, but eff it, I like it.

Another thing I want badly is food. Not just any food, but those hearty winter meals that make you all warm on the inside. I could murder a bowl of cream of tomato soup with meatballs in it. Or a pot pie. Or beef stew. Anything that warms the cockles, really.

Great, now I’m dreaming of pasta and chicken and garlic and all that makes me go Woop Woop with a double capital W.

Forgive me, dear reader. For I am poor and out of good food.

The third thing I find myself craving is hot chocolate.

Who doesn’t, really? Nothing can do you more good than a massive hot chocolate with a few marshmallows drifting on top.

Seeing as I’m drifting away on a cloud of fantasies about drifting on hot chocolate… I’m leaving this post at that.


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