It is the fourteenth of November and I finally turned on the heat this morning, when the temperature upstairs, where I am working on this rainy day, was 59 degrees. Not immediately on waking up, not even on sitting down at my desk, when I found myself blowing on my hands to keep them from getting stiff at the keyboard. I felt like Bob Cratchit, wrapped in a quilt, hoping to sneak a quick lump of coal onto the fire while the boss’s back was turned — except that I was the boss, who until now had been content to wear a hoodie and suck it up. As Scrooge said,
These are garments, Mr. Cratchit. Garments were invented by the human race as a protection against the cold. Once purchased, they may be used indefinitely for the purpose for which they are intended. Coal burns. Coal is momentary and coal is costly. There will be no more coal burned in this office today, is that quite clear, Mr. Cratchit?
Fifty-nine degrees is, apparently, my Scrooge-Cratchit line. I am frankly disappointed in myself, but I will say in my defense that the artharitis runs in my family, and that sixty-two feels pleasantly balmy.