This was bad. We didn't turn on each other though. We all shuffled off to our various rooms and sulked. But then the really horrendous thing happened. The heating died. Ours is not the sort of house that retains heat. It sort of eats it and spits it out the windows. As each of us realised our rooms were becoming slowly more refrigerated we emerged in our various cold-proofing outfits.
It got to the point where I looked like a walking thrift store.
It then escalated to the point where I could not actually move my arms.
I was insistent that despite all this we should remain positive. That running and being proactive was the answer to this Frankenstein-type January that was trying to bring us down.
I was spending most of my time curled up in bed writing. This was quite cosy until my hot-water bottle started leaking.
Any normal person would have checked to make sure they weren't just imagining the bed was wet. But I kept typing, sure I was just being dramatic as my bed got soggier and soggier. When I finally realised that I was indeed sitting in a rather warm and soggy puddle of water, I of course had words with the deflated excuse for a hot-water bottle.
I then spent the night huddled in one corner of my bed feeling more than sorry for myself. With no hot-water bottle and no heating it felt like the cold was settling in my lungs.
But I was still determined to make sure January wouldn't get me down. So I decided to go for a long, long, long run. This would a) dispel all bad feelings towards the month and b) ensure warmth for the duration of the run. But then this happened...
By the time I got home I was soaked to the skin and colder than when I'd started out.
I then spent a couple of hours clutching the kettle in search of warmth.
Shortly after this I decided to retire to my blanket and stay there until the cold has passed.