My mind is warming up at the same slow rate as the bathroom, less concerned with writing than with steeling itself for the discomfort from frozen hands that will surely come with the imminent and essential cutting of fire wood. I am becoming a master of procrastination, particularly if it involves me and hard labour in the cold. This is a seasonal malaise aggravated by increasing age. Wine might improve with age but tolerance doesn’t and I can’t tolerate cold hands. On reflection it is not my hands per se that suffer from the cold, but the very tips of the two longest fingers of each hand. As the ambient temperature around my finger tips drops. the blood seems to drain from them. Their sensitivity is such that, even allowing for my antipathy to this particular form of decoration, it might be worth tattooing a thermometric scale on each of the offending digits so that I could associate an exact temperature to each level of pain. I’ve just started to have very unfortunate thoughts concerning the concept of a finger being a thermometer so I’m covering my conceptual ears and going “la, la, la, la……” whilst thinking of something delicious like raspberries and honey….oh, I’m not sure about this either. Time for a cold shower.