It’s cold in Madrid. I knew it would be cold, but it’s really cold.
So cold that I have been finding ways to convince myself it’s pleasant so I don’t just crawl into a doorway with a homeless person and decide to die.
I tell myself that it’s bracing. Ah, it’s cold, but bracing! Energising! Gosh, you really know you’re alive with a wind chill factor of -45c!
All of that pep-talking is only so useful. Especially because I am in Cold Madrid with a cold-loving person. Someone who – and I am directing this at all cold-loving people now – I don’t believe actually feels the cold. If you cold-loving people were feeling the cold that I was feeling you would not love it.
I feel your cold-loving judgement. Oh c’mon, it’s not that cold. Ummm, yes it is. This is ‘a lot of old people died last night’ cold.
But your judgement means nothing because I shield myself with an even greater dose of judgement back. You barbarians, you don’t even feel the cold like I do. I am like the princess and the pea. It’s a frozen pea and it’s making my bed of 100 mattresses really cold.