“It is in the coldest months that hugs linger snug, and they warm the soul the most.”
Richelle E. Goodrich.
We love the weather here in the UK, unique as our changing seasons are, always able to offer us something to talk about. The summer heatwave now seems an act of fiction.
The current cold snap has, so far, not inflicted snow upon these parts, just bitingly cold temperatures. What our European neighbours think of us when the inevitable annual two inches of snow plunges the country into gridlock, who knows?
Many of us will remember childhood days as we woke for school clad in numerous blankets, well before our parents could afford fancy duvets and central heating.
The blankets felt like a form of heavy-duty sandpaper and lay on top of you like a restraining force. If one moved they all seemed to and puny arms were tasked with dragging them back into some sort of order before the warmth you’d earnt all night fled your body in a breath.
How our mums ever washed these things I do not know; perhaps they only got washed once a year? Some things are best not dwelling on; a dog blanket probably got better attention.
The hot water bottle was essential although these temperamental things would probably now come with a health and safety leaflet longer than a novel. Filling them was an act full of danger as the boiling water would spit at you as you tried to hold the thing still enough to fill without getting scarred for life.
Do you remember ice inside your bedroom windows? Long before the advent of double-glazing, old wooden window frames leaked damp in the winter and condensation turned to ice. The ice would crystallise and might have looked quite beautiful were it not that my balls were freezing off.
Getting up began by dragging your clothes under your bedsheets to take the chill out before trying to get some on whilst keeping the blanket covering in place. Only then would you feel confident to leave the comfort of your bed for another day at school.
A silent prayer was offered that the unreliable school boiler had failed again although we would still have to make the journey in those pre-social-media days. The minute word spread that school was closed we would spread to all parts, fearful of being rounded up once more.
Eventually, we would trudge home, frozen fingers and toes desperate to seek the warmth of the gas fire before crawling under the mass of sheets once again to dream of summer days.
The Blame Game
The recent DCMS (Dept Culture, Media & Sport) Select Committee meeting this week was notable for attempts to lay wrongdoing at door of The Yorkshire Post whose reporting of the racism scandal has been as good as journalism can get.
Cricket writer Chris Water’s documenting of this saga has been professional, objective and honest; if only those sitting on the DCMS committee were capable of the same.
From the beginning, Azeem Rafiq and his supporters have sought to allow only one narrative to suit their objectives. Little will change here until the truth is fully aired but we are edging closer and closer.
Footnote
If you previously signed up to receive emails when I posted something new and were wondering why you hadn’t gotten one in a while, the service I used shut down. I was unaware of this until alerted recently – my apologies.
Please sign up using the form below or in the sidebar (this is the advice I have from the Idlelord Tech Dept) and normal service will resume.
Leave a Reply