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.
The Blurred Line 