My bedroom, the microclimate

Tonight in my boudoir, I am dressed in a long pair of socks, a pair of bedsocks, pyjama bottoms, a Britney Spears tshirt from her 2000 Oops! I Did It Again tour, and my old P.E. jumper, whilst nestled under my 13.5 tog double duvet and my woollen camp blanket. Welcome to the life of a student living in a draughty Victorian terraced house in the most expensive neighbourhood in Bristol (albeit on the periphery). Tomorrow, my rotten sash windows are being replaced. Never has double-glazing been so hotly anticipated. The idea of having an entire wind, rain and autumn leaf-tight bay window fills me with so much joy, it almost warms my icy bed. But not quite, as I am distracted by the sound of raindrops coming down the fireplace I cannot use.

I previously contemplated investing in a hot water bottle, but by the time I summon the energy to leave the house (shivering is exhausting), I forget how cold it is, scoff at the idea of spending £12 on a rubber bottle covered in some furry material and get distracted by biscuits or something equally hopeless. I have, however, been eyeing-up a very fetching bed cap (in the style of Ebenezer Scrooge) that was featured in one of those catalogues that come with the Sunday papers, aimed at pensioners, but maybe I’ll just wait and see how the windows turn out…

Our neighbours appear to have embraced their draughty windows


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