Cold Feet

In my bedroom, the windows are as thin as the ice that forms in garden water barrels in early British winter. The cold seeps through the slats of the white shutters and slithers into bed with me, where it curls up at my feet and licks my toes. The walls, and my bed sheets are all the colour of January morning skies; the iciness permeates my  psyche. In summer, it is a cool refuge from the hot streets, hazy with the scent of melting asphalt. In winter my frozen appendages keep me awake at night. My hands nestle into warm places: between my arms and sides, between my thighs. But my poor feet! They are helpless. They rub together to retain some heat, but in vain. Their friction sparks no fire. They are just two cold lumps of flesh, like twin trout in a freezer drawer. How they long for socks to warm them! My selfish body ignores their pleas; it's warm, under the duvet, and besides, it has its own furnace inside its chest. The feet send their telegrams through the nerves and the brain tries not to hear them. But sleep is prevented, nevertheless.

One day, perhaps, my feet will just drop off their respective ankles and hop out of bed. Perhaps they'll walk to the sock draw and try to pull it open with their toes. Or perhaps they'll wander off around the house in search of some one else's slippers, or a radiator against which they can press their icy soles and sulk. Let them go. I don't care, they were stopping me from sleeping. Besides, they'll come crying back in the morning when they realise they can't tie their own laces.