I once saw a cartoon which summed this up perfectly. There was a farmer sitting in a field literally littered with hay bales – obviously a bumper crop.
He was talking over the fence to his neighbour saying “and if this lot goes on fire it will be the worst year we’ve ever had”.
So last Saturday we met some friends for an early evening drink.
The centre of town was busy, what with there having been a rugby match on at Murrayfield, and the only table we could get was in the beer garden of The Cumberland.
Well, at 7pm we were still sitting outside, still wearing coats but no need for hats and gloves despite there being no heating.
In fact, it’s just as well we didn’t need to keep our hands warm as Bruce the spaniel had decided to chew the fingers off the glove he found in our friend’s jacket pocket.
“It’s amazing that it is so mild in the middle of November” said one who was sitting around the table. “Yes”, agreed the husband, “but we’ll pay for it soon”.
Bah humbug I thought, as my mind wandered to whether I have enough thermal underwear in case he was indeed correct. I ran through the list in my head and reckoned that we had been OK as long as Bruce hadn’t eaten all my thermal socks.
To be honest I don’t mind the cold too much – piling on jumpers and scarves has been part of my life since I can remember.
Growing up in a draughty farmhouse leaves one with little option than to learn how to layer, clothing-wise, from November until about the middle of March.
Double glazing wasn’t something my parents seemed to have heard of in those days, although I am sure it must have existed somewhere.
Of course, the man to whom I am married is already complaining about future gas bills. I think I shall buy him a balaclava.