It’s snowing. In Dublin. On the 26th of March.
SPEAKING OF WHICH.
Well, not really, but kind of:
In one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, probably THE LONG WINTER, there’s a scene where Laura is bundled up in bed and she describes the level of bundling to be sufficient that only her nose pokes out so she can breathe fresh air.
I’ve spent most of my life (not, you know, constantly, but) trying to accomplish that particular bundle. The closest I can come is about 2/3rds of my face covered, with the blanket over my head and snuggled over the non-pillow side of my face and lying along my nose but not covering it. This necessarily leaves the pillow side of my face exposed, although it’s snugged into the pillow, so perhaps that’s what she meant. And yes, I realize I’m probably taking the description too literally, but it vaguely aggravates me that I can’t accomplish it. (I assume this is perfectly normal.)
Anyway, it’s so miserably cold in these bloody houses that I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, and keep meaning to blog about it, because I know you just couldn’t go another day without understanding my pain. :)