Fessing up

I have done something so utterly heinous that I cannot keep it to myself. Even though writing it down is going to get me into all sorts of trouble, for the sake of my sanity I have to confess. It’s something I’ve been doing for years but only just realised. I must have been in denial, because it is just so shameful.

It was a terrible shock when I finally rumbled myself. I was sitting at the kitchen table ploughing through the latest election leaflets pushed through my door, searching in vain for a grain of policy that might apply to an insignificant little single girl like me — nothing, not even a hint of an acknowledgement that I might exist — when it hit me. OK, I’m just going to come out and say it: I had the heating on full blast and the back door wide open. I know. How could a civilised person commit an act of such barbarity, a crime against humanity so obscene, so immoral?

I’m not going even to pretend that it was an aberration because what I need to confess is that I realise I’ve been doing this pretty much every day on and off for most of my adult life. I don’t suppose any environmentally conscious people will read any further as they are by now lying in the recovery position or projectile vomiting from the sheer shock of it all. But for those still with me, this is why: I have terrible circulation problems. If I get cold, I never get warm again. I’m one of those people with permanently icy hands and feet. I went riding today in 70 degree sunshine wearing a thermal vest, two T-shirts and a ski fleece — never cast a cloud till May is out, my grandmother, who bequeathed me cold extremities, was fond of saying.