I fucking hate winter.
If I had the choice I’d hibernate for the next four months, but then I know that my family would perish.
I’ve always hated the cold, and as for snow, it’s definitely over-rated. And it’s certainly not possible to look attractive in winter.
In the same way that I could push a child into the jaws of a shark to save myself, I could kill my best friend for some decent Uggs.
I never realized before I migrated to Australia just how much climate affects my happiness and although there are many things I miss about the UK, scraping frost off the windscreen of the car at bitch o’clock on dark, freezing mornings, is certainly not one of them.
I don’t function physically or mentally when I’m cold.
Actually, that’s a lie.
But the problem is that most houses in Sydney really aren’t geared up to the cold.
And what makes it worse is that Sydney-siders seem embrace the winter, unlike us Brits who moan when it’s cold and then when it’s too hot as well. I need someone to indulge me, not tell me how much they fucking love this freezing, fucking weather.
My friends in the UK laugh at me when I tell them that the temperature has dipped to 15 degrees. It’s easy to forget how quickly we acclimatize. The last time we went back to the UK and it was a warm (!) 17 degree day, I didn’t leave the house without my ski jacket on. When I spotted some young girls cavorting down Oxford St in summer dresses and thongs, it took all my inner strength not to shout out to them to put some sensible clothes on.
When we first arrived in Sydney, softened and spoilt over time by the aforementioned central heating and double brick houses, one of our first homes was this enormous property with no heating. The old man and I would shiver our way through those winter evenings, huddled together on the sofa for warmth. We bought pathetic little fan heaters that reminded me of student life and wouldn’t have heated a doll’s house adequately.
The only time we felt warm was when we remained glued to the 1m x 1m spot directly in front of them and we would negotiate over who would look after the kids in the cold zone.
At times we wondered what the fuck we’d done. All those reality tv shows about Australia had led us to believe that it was hot all year around and we felt duped.
Fortunately, like childbirth, once the sun reappears, it’s much easier to forget the ravages of pain.
I can’t deny that the winter days here aren’t glorious with their blue skies and sunshine and I can often go from ski jacket to sleeveless tee in the space of an hour.
But we still live in a house with no proper heating.
The old man doesn’t realise but the words ‘ducted heating’ could act as a sexual trigger word for me these days, although sadly I am yet to enjoy the reality of it.
We have upgraded, to slow death from poisoning as we inhale the fumes from our gurgling gas heater, which, aside from blocking all sound out from the television as it chugs into life each night, does seem to work – until the old man deems that his personal thermostat is the one that regulates the heat in the room, meaning I have to resort to the dog for heat.
Anyone else feel my pain or do I just need some backbone?