It is small wonder there are few people on the street today. It is so bitterly cold that no one choses to venture abroad. The cold air seeps through every crack in this historic building. Even without the cracks the cold radiates inwardly as though the double brick walls were made of ice.
The grinding temperatures have had the same effect upon business in general. I also fully suspect the miserable weather has precipitated the usual colds and flues of the season, disabling the subalterns of bureaucracy upon whom I rely.
No matter. I spent the entire weekend nursing my own head cold, so I am just as happy to have nothing trying to do today.
Every autumn I mistakenly imagine that we might escape the foul weather of winter. Only once was I persuaded in this myth until early January. Otherwise the snow and cold return year after year, though why I should be surprised I’ll never know. Yet I cannot become accustomed to it. My only consolation is that the days are lengthening ever so slightly. I saw a sign on a store yesterday advertising the early planting of spring seeds. That helps, too.
The combination of the dry cold air and the effect of the antihistamines I took on the weekend has left me feeling parched and brittle. I wish I were wearing another layer of wool to supplement the three layers of clothing I already have on.
Such hardship makes the task of exercising even more grueling. It is so much easier to prefer one’s comfortable chair in front of a blazing fire. I may, however, convince myself otherwise by the day’s end. Sitting about for the entire winter is not my ambition.
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