The Icy Exterior

Out of the frying pan, into the freezer; my room has accomplished the unthinkable by transforming itself: from clouding me with the dry heat of a sauna, to the bitter chills of a meat locker.

The boiler that stands its ground in the corner of my room makes it impossible – during the summer – to remain enclosed within its four walls without collapsing due to heat stroke in a few seconds. The nights would be the worst of all; every inch of your being screamed for the relief of a fan or an air conditioner (which I swiftly denied them access to, since it would culminate in my reliance on these pieces of equipment all through the day; a dependence I was not willing to consent to).

And in a dramatic twist of fate, what should befall this same room? You’ve guessed it; the boiler decides to give up the ghost and leave me mired in temperatures now closely resembling the Gobi desert throughout the year. Before that, dreams of a cooler climate (with, perhaps, the occasional monsoon to mix things up a little) in this bedroom would never come to fruition.

How ungrateful I am that those dreams have come true.

Three nights in a row have I awoken to feel cold’s embrace about my torso, caressing my shoulders and feet until I am forced to lash out repeatedly at the empty air. I struggle to banish its presence from my bed – grasping, clutching the covers tighter and tighter to preserve what little warmth had not yet abandoned me. Nevertheless, it would not relinquish; it clambered under the paper-thin quilt and assaulted the exposed flesh with an onslaught of taps and nips on the skin. My body convulsed at the feeling- partially in pain, partially in shock – and soon I lay there shivering, shuddering into submission. There was no doubt in my mind as to the violation I had received.

I have never been one not to complain at extreme temperature variations. A permanent foe of nature’s radiator, the Sun, it was not until about three years ago, however, that I renounced the impertinence of wintry weather with valour (subsequent to my loss of a large amount of body mass, which left me a great deal more susceptible to freezing conditions). Add to this substandard circulation, and you have a young man likely to don a thick coat and chatter his teeth at the first signs of frigidity.

Ultimately, in the event of my untimely end, should I be offered the choice, I would ardently select a means of hypothermia over hyperthermia. Compared to scorching heat, I am enamoured with the cold. Too often might I lapse into a semi-comatose state if unable to sufficiently reduce my body temperature during unusually hot British summers.

But events of yesterday did remind me that sub-zero can be just as inhospitable as +35°C. The gym at the end of my garden does not insulate heat. Try playing a game like Athens 2004 (where you button-bash insanely commonly) when your thumbs and fingers are seizing up! Poor Rachael could hardly flinch after a while. And rightfully, she had a go at me for not switching on the heater sooner.

If you wouldn’t mind, I must apply some socks to my feet, to stave off frostbite. Until next time...