I wonder if feeling cold is a sign of life, of living, of being alive. If so, I think I'm living beyond my years. Heaters seem insufficient, hot water is a waste of time and blankets seem about the only thing that works, though it takes hours for their warmth to truly kick in. Followed by a lack of movement so no warm air escapes.
On the flip side, the library is toasty. Lecture theatres swift me away to tropical islands filled with professors and lino. Its not all bad. The mould on my window from lack of air and stubborn condensation is sure to have benefits. Though I haven't figured out what they are just yet.
As I watch the calendar, willing dates to fly by to bring summer and a sun which actually omits heat, perhaps I'm over analysing. After all, I have a roof over my head so when it rains I don't get wet. (Though technically I do as the flat has such an incredible lack of insulation that I'm practically drinking the moisture inside.)
I do have a heater which allows the possibility for warmth. (Then again, its heat is instantly sucked out the paper thin walls though still costing us far more than what our student loans can handle.)
But really, I have people to share it with. This experience. Or whatever. I don't have to sit alone, cold, damp, frozen. I can look around me and see three other shivering bodies, wrapped in blankets around the heater, hot water bottles perched on our chill bained covered feet.
So its not alllllll bad.
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