I can't now recall that feeling of hardly being able to drag oneself to the fridge for a bottle of slightly cool water, or driving up to the top of a local hill to locate a pocket of non-fetid hot air. When socks are a mysterious collection of unfamiliar things hidden at the back of the drawer and a small salad is sufficient for lunch.
Have been fighting an urge today to lie on the sofa under all available blankets with the dogs, eat chocolate and watch daft films featuring Hugh Grant. We are all obviously supposed to hibernate between January and April, crawl into a big pile of leaves and emerge blinking in the delicate pale sunlight of April, unwashed but enthused; ready for the new year.
I was idly perusing youtube for some info to show Ezra about the coldest place to live on earth. There it was, a small settlement in deepest Siberia. A group of lonely houses in a white expanse. A large sign proudly stated the coldest record of recent times. - seventy five degrees! The local 'weather man', dressed in a light jumper (as it was only - thirty two degrees) was describing how you would literally freeze outside in a couple of minutes if not wearing the right clothing. (presumably three ski combinations inside a hollowed out yak).
Getting the car out to go to Super U to get a new gas bottle suddenly seemed a thing of joy and wonder.