It's very cold. In that way that it starts off cold and then the sun never breaks through the clouds and warms up the Earth so that the air stays frigid and blustery. I'm curled up on my couch with with my laptop to keep me warm, my new favourite above knee stripey socks and a short denim skirt, the two inches of bare thigh my own personal rebellion against the cold. Blood red scarf around my neck to stop the sniffles and my hair completely bed mussed with very little inclination to tame it.
My hammock looks forlorn outside the French doors, limply quivering in the morning breeze up the hill while the red Chinese lanterns hold on grimly, waiting for better times.
It is a morning to be curled up in bed, nose snuggled under the covers to stop the chill, waking leisurely and then maybe reading for a little while. Getting out of bed after 10, going to the city and wandering around the deserted streets and being outside. Stomping feet to keep them cold while cheeks blush red. Buying hot chocolate with melted marshmallows forming extra foam on the top, the chocolate dust on top of the mug getting caught on upper lip.
It's a day that calls for heat to come from within, to light up from the inside. To feel the snap crackle and pop of neurons firing with spontaneous ideas and lighting up like a Christmas tree. To find a tree stripped bare of its finery and to curl up amongst its roots with a well chewed pencil and thick paper.
Instead I am being squished with half chewed strawberry while Olivia does a fashion show on ABC2. Barbie and My Little Pony (generic x2) are having a fabulous adventure on the couch next to me and Bingley has all the covers; Oscar the cat is sprawled luxuriously over my side of the bed.
It's noisy here, and sometimes I live in dreams. But the quiet can feel very lonely too.
I am happy here.