Earth Stood Hard as Iron, Water like a Stone.

I have a little card in the bedroom, probably gifted to those of a certain age, that tells you the temperature of the room and advises you about what to do about it, should you be at the wandered stage in life.
This morning in an otherwise centrally heated house but with no heating in the bedroom, it read 55 degrees, at risk of hypothermia.
I can tell you that dressing was done in record time to avoid slipping into a coma. Still no frost or ice on the inside of the windows though.

Once out in the big white world, it felt even colder than yesterday: I would hazard -12 degrees with the snow crunching satisfyingly underfoot.
The trouble was that on the uncleared pavements, the snow had compacted into little icy hills and valleys, so that navigating them felt like trekking in the foothills of the Himalayas. On the paths of the Dower House estate however, with the softened snow it felt like a laborious tramp through sand dunes of sugary like powder.

I was out and about to blip and collect some shopping. I came home with frozen fingers and one arm definitely longer than the other.

The other bit of news of great significance is that one of the rubber bands holding together the coiled wires on the sole of one of my Yaktrax has broken. Having sung their praises for the last week, I feel rather like my best friend has let me down.
Time for drastic action.

A snowy Castle from Greyfrairs Kirkyard.