I’m not fond of winter. There’s snow and hot cocoa and bonfires and woolen hats, mittens, scarves, yes. Skiing and tobogganing and printing angels of stature in grounded clouds of white, sure. I used to love the idea of winter when I was a child because I imagined it to be a season in which a certain hush would befall towns, and, forgetting a significant portion of the Eastern hemisphere, there was the matter of Christmas and presents, of course. Canada and New Zealand and Switzerland contributed to the idyllic narrative part of me believed in, but the long, cold nights in London casted a darker, more sullen shadow over the fantasy. I didn’t like how eggnog tasted. Fireplaces, though promising, only left an uneven distribution of warmth across my skin. Without socks, bathroom tiles were cold and wet; with socks, just wet. I’d heard stories of people getting frostbites and their ears falling off without them realising. Layer upon layer of blankets never seemed to suffice. You had to be careful where you stepped, lest your boots find themselves in sludge, or slipping across ice.

I hate the cold. Why do I still feel it so often?

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