Cold Feet



Jack Frost reached up and grabbed hold of my toes. His touch was gentle like a lover’s caress.

I reacted like a frog in a pot of hot water. I didn’t pull away. I just sat there hardly aware of the icy grip penetrating to the bone.

Until I couldn’t feel my feet at all.

At which point is was too late.

That was at about 10 o’clock this morning.

Now, I sit at 4pm, all dignity shredded, with my feet wrapped in a jacket under my desk.

My pretty shoes have been casually discarded on the floor.

Pretty is as pretty does and pretty does not keep my toes warm apparently.

I considered sitting on the office kitchen counter and bathing my feet in the sink, but decided that it might be unhygienic.

I considered going down to my car, turning on the heater and working from the parking lot, but the Wi-Fi is spotty down there.

The cold has now risen up my body and is perched somewhere near my neck, cackling like a winter hag on a broomstick.

I live in bloody Africa!

I’d be warmer right now in the Outer Hebrides.



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I write because I have to. It is a compulsion. I do it to vent, to laugh and to remember. I blog because it has been so long since I had to write with a pen that my hand would go into cramp if I tried to write a journal.

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