This morning, as I opened the back door to let our guests go outside for a shit, I was confused. We were recently gifted a thermometer that not only displays the temperature outside and inside the house, but also sports the graphic of a “petit bonhomme” who digitally dresses in an outfit that the mind of thermometer feels would be appropriate for the day. Razor sharp eye sight is not part of my gene pool, yet I still chose to be a photographer. This must have been because I was too short to be a Navy pilot. Back to the eyesight. My first glance at the thermometer coincided with the icy fingers that clawed at me through the open door. I was surprised to read that the outside temperature was 17ºC ; so surprised in fact that it caused me to shout a pithy comment to Jenny “amazing, it’s 17 degrees outside” and immediately felt warm, left the door open so that our guests could come back in when they wished, and put on the coffee. The morning continued in its normal pattern with time spent at the computer, a shower and a slow progress back downstairs. “Fuck me, it’s cold” whispered my hot shower refreshed senses, “…and why in God’s name is the door open?”. Our guests were sitting quietly on the sofa, clad in black Astrakhan coats, which begged the same question. Luckily, I must have subliminally noticed the thermometer’s wardrobe suggestion which, like Henry Ford only offers a black option, as I was indeed wearing the suggested black trousers and top that were recommended for the current 3.5º C which is the current temperature of house and garden and which is why I have the hump.