There is an ongoing Cold War in the Wensleydale household.
This started last year when the imminent arrival of the Petite Pommes meant that Le Pomme finally had a reason to remove my beloved electric blanket. As I was using the Petite Pommes as an internal source of heating, bedtime last winter was, at least, bearable.
But now I am frozen. I am Arctic of Toe. I am teaching the Petite Pommes how to greet each other with an Eskimo Kiss – so far they are better at the Glasgow Kiss, but I have hopes of improvement.
Yet Le Pomme has vetoed the purchase of a new electric blanket. He refused to entertain the idea of me putting one on my Christmas list (mind you, I’ve had a puppy on there for the last five years and one still hasn’t appeared). And what’s worse, bed socks have also been deemed Items Undesirable. You have no idea how much I long for a nightshirt and bed socks. In my head, I’d look like picture from a White Company catalogue as I made the morning porridge. In reality, I’d look like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards with a baby velcroed to me, let alone had time to apply full make up and artfully tousle my hair.
He doesn’t even like my most loved and comfortable pair of pj’s. To be fair, I’ve had them since I was 16, my dad bought them from me, they are faded and wearing thin, but they are toasty and I love them. It’s frosty of an evening here.
I find the best way to warm up is a liberal dose of mulled wine. And then take my revenge by warming my feet up on Le Pomme.
A weaker man would have begged me to give in and bought me some Scandinavian socks by now.