The temperature is minus 11, the telephone kindly informs me that it
actually feels like minus 18. Cold in other words. And the balcony glass
is encrusted in the swirls and fern like pattern of a deep frost. This
takes me back. For as a young lad such an image would not of been on the
balcony glass. Reason? We had no balcony, bereft of balcony we were.
The other fact is that the ice was inside. Inside on my bedroom window!
But you were born and raised in the West I hear voices oft repeat to me! Yes, but the house, being unaware of its position was lacking in heating. Apart from an undersized and overworked gas fire in the front room. Is this a tale of woe and hardship? Hell no! Just a memory of what a beautiful thing it was to watch such patterns on the osmotic windows from the convenience of being under toasty blankets.
But you were born and raised in the West I hear voices oft repeat to me! Yes, but the house, being unaware of its position was lacking in heating. Apart from an undersized and overworked gas fire in the front room. Is this a tale of woe and hardship? Hell no! Just a memory of what a beautiful thing it was to watch such patterns on the osmotic windows from the convenience of being under toasty blankets.
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