The fingerless gloves, so redolent of Dickensian misery, would be just the job today. They would be even more the job if they weren’t fingerless as it’s the tips of my fingers that turn to bloodless corpse white when the temperature performs that perfect jack knife off the 10m board and plummets into the icy blue. Running on the spot or just keeping moving can suffice to warm the body, but no matter how fast I try to type, my fingertips remain insensitive white blobs, and past a certain speed I can only type random letters, which would be like writing a novel on the Enigma machine…only warmth will set the blood coursing and warmth, particularly of the electric kind, is a luxury that I ration as carefully as the Beluga that I spoon onto my toast each morning. I’m forever planning to have toast but it would mean turning on the toaster, which expense has deterred me from buying Beluga which means that having cold hands is an extraordinarily smart way of saving money. I’m sure Warren Buffet’s hands are freezing..
Tip: Try this when the larder is bereft of sturgeon eggs.