The cold crept up into my bones,
or rather, every shiver of heat crept
out of them. Numb fingers numb toes
numb head, mind dulled into simple,
animal logic by the cold, driven to
mad frustration, grumpiness.
Trudged home bitter and almost
wept when I couldn't find my door keys.
And yet, it was nothing
two friends, a duvet and
Nigella Lawson couldn't fix.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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