Monday 5 January 2009

• Walking to work along quiet grey streets, through falling snow.
• Narnia-flavoured banter before 8.30am.
• Bath. Book. Bottle of red. Bed.
• Using the phrase 'it's wicked cold' in entirely the right Bostonian context.
• The curiously comforting but deeply unsexy combination of a big old bowl of porridge consumed while safe in the knowledge that knee-length burlington socks are hidden under my boots. A bizarre association perhaps, but both are trusted weapons in battle against the chill of January.