There's been a chill in the London air of late. As soon as September broke, the air changed and the number of coats laden upon the coat-rack next to me at work grew considerably, so that it now teeters dangerously in my direction with each newly discarded garb.
I don't mind it. Sure, the dry skin and constant need for umbrellas are a bit of a drag but I see it as an excuse to buy new clothes, eat mashed potato, drink spiced (and spiked!) hot apple juice and cozy on down for the winter. Heating and slipper-socks on, I'm perfectly happy.
However.
Waltham (the suburb of Boston we live in) is a different story. For a start, it snows. A Lot. At first, it's magical - the snow muffles and enshrouds, the dingy street adopts a whole new narniaesque quality and you stand in wonder that that much white stuff could have fallen over night. Then you realise: in order to get out of the house, you first must dig (yes, dig) yourself out.
If, like me, you're a poor excuse for an adult who can't drive then you have to wade through snow (which quickly stops being beautiful and ethereal and quickly becomes bloody cold and wet) to the bus stop. By this time you're in danger of getting frost-bite and you remain damp and bedraggled for the rest of the day before trudging despondently home. The alternative for the fully fledged adults isn't much better, because although they don't have to wade to the bus-stop, they do have to shovel out their car, which can take a good 20 minutes of solid freezing effort. Give me a skinny-latte and an onion bagel any day.
That's the real, newly fallen snow, which while inconvenient is not without its charms. Next comes the slush, and the mountains of dead snow (muddy grey piles of nothingness) which stoically remain well into spring. The dead-snow-piles are just ugly. The slush, however, is vindictive. Its favourite game is to pretend to be solid ordinary snow, only to give-way into murky ice water which, again, leaves your toes in danger of frostbite and your shoes in danger of disintegration.
But hey, I hear you say, all that cold just makes going home into the warmth that much more enjoyable, right? Wrong. Because I am marrying a crazy person.
Jeremy, much as I love him (and I do love him very much) has a few screws loose. Particularly when it comes to heating. The boy (I think I'll still be calling him a boy when he's old and grey) doesn't feel the cold and seems to have a yearly competition with himself to see how little oil he can use. The heating only goes on when there's a possibility that the pipes might freeze (and Jeremy doesn't think pipes will freeze unless is hits the theoretical absence of all thermal energy.). I have regularly come into his house to find it's colder inside than outside.
My old housemates will tell you that I'm no fan of cranking up the heat. I want to store up as many carbon-guilt-points as possible so that I feel less guilty when I fly over the Atlantic 4 times a year. But Jeremy pushes the limits of inhabitable conditions - one should not have to wear hats gloves and scarves inside the house - and the only thing that stops me from beating him over the head with a snow-shovel is that I genuinely believe he doesn't feel the cold (he once wore shorts up until january for a $20 bet that never got paid).
But clearly, such a state of affairs is not going to help me settle into my new home. The thought of arriving in mid-boston-winter terrifies me enough without the thought that I might die of hypothermia in my sleep. We've spoken about this and I think Jeremy's resigned to giving up his ice-house along with bachelorhood. The other option, which would definitely save on heating bills is moving to California, where the sun always shines and no one ever needs to exhume their car or contend with frostbite...hmmmm....tough one.
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