It’s a long time since I’ve been as cold as I was last night. By the time I went to bed the chill had cloaked me. I daren’t move for fear of disturbing the air pockets in my clothes. My fears were well founded. The bedroom far colder than my space by the fire. I stripped slowly, exchanging socks and trousers for some big woolly socks knitted by Ian’s mother. I didn’t take off my shirt at all, just peeled my bra out from underneath and put my nightshirt on over the top, cursing gently the movers whose for no apparent reason chose to move my pyjama bottoms which had been conveniently located in my bedside drawer. I forced myself to wash my face, my fingers webbing with icicles. When were my fingers last so cold that I couldn’t hold my book, couldn’t bear to be out of the covers to read?
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