Cold As Charity

It’s a little nipply in Sydney at the moment.

I’m originally from Melbourne. The winters there make a mockery of Sydney winters, but I have spent a huge majority of my life in Sydney and have not retained the thick blood required to weather the weather, without complaint. I’m too tropically acclimatised.

It was filthy cold in my little flat last night. I mean, I had a woolly cap-type-thing on, but it didn’t get to my ears. I had to wrap a scarf around my head. I looked like Wilfred. I don’t own a beanie. That’s how tropical I am.

I put all four of the stove burners on and placed a fan next to them to blow the heat into the room. The little radiator was just not cutting it. I don’t own a proper heater. That’s how tropical I am.

Walking down the street, the cold air blowing through my clothes and around my gentlemen’s area kept on making me think my fly was undone. I must have checked it three times between the car park and the door. No thick pants. That tropical.

My nose started bleeding from the cold. Tropical as, lady.

I had proper ice and frost on the windscreen. I didn’t even know what that was or what to do with it. The windscreen wipers were too tropical to even get underneath it. Trop fest.

Here’s my trump. I had been reading in bed (Warmest, safest place to be.) but my hands, by necessity, had to poke out. I got up to check my mail and I couldn’t move the curser because my hands were too cold to be registered by the touch-pad on the laptop. Topical, tropical, conductive madness.