I have a complicated relationship with my furnace. I deeply resent turning it on every year. It’s not even that it’s all that expensive. It’s just I feel that I should be tougher than that. I shouldn’t walk around whining that my fingers are frozen stiff when it’s 55 in here. That’s a perfectly lovely temperature and I should enjoy it.
But I find if I’m sitting still and reading or writing, I really can’t abide 55, even if I’m bundled up in all sorts of woolly layers. And the next few days are going to see a lot of reading and writing as I finish up the supporting text for Book the Second.
Ever since the bout with pneumonia, I find I’m a giant wuss about the cold. It makes me wheezy, and if I don’t watch it, I start to cough. So I’ve struck something of a compromise. I’ve put one wee tiny electric heater in my office. It’s just enough to knock the chill off when I’m sitting still. It also means this is the warmest room in the house, which should be just the boost I need to camp out in here and get this book done.
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