No shortage of shiver

I am delighted it has rained. No, really. Rain is good. Parks look nicer dressed in green. Things grow and such. All good, really very, very good.

I live in a very cold place, now. There is no lounging about limbs akimbo in the naked darkness wondering whether the buzzing in your head is a mosquito or the sound of the sweat sizzling on your skin. There is no slipping down the beach early before the sand gets too hot to stand on, then holing yourself up in a darkened room to watch the cricket until the sun stops doing its 'hammer and anvil' schtick on the pavement. There is no ritual slathering of sunblock before you step out the door of a morning, nor inspecting the sun-damage on your skin before you go to bed at night (a rather depressing aside: I look like a wisened hag, skin-wise, compared to the average person of about my age over there). There, if it should ever hit 25 degrees, the people go all pink and flustered and keep saying the word 'scorcher' to each other. I kid you not.

Don't get me wrong, there is a lot to like. There is (or at least was in my former residence and I trust will be again) curling up by the fire. Pubs with lead-light windows give of a friendly glow in afternoon darkness, and in summer you can stay in the glowing pubs until 11.30 and still stumble home in the light.

And the sky is big. There are places have small skies, but I don't think I could live in one. Snow falls, occasionally, which is hilarious. Besides, it makes the hills over the Firth go all white on their little rounded heads, and if the sun ever does come out they give a little blinding sparkle of joy. August (a.k.a. 'summer') was cloudy. Unrelentingly cloudy. There was not a single moment when I saw even the tiniest sliver of blue in the sky for the whole month. Not once.

To be fair, August was also reasonably un-cold. Nothing wrong with cold, per se, but in my new home there is rather a lot of it. It's cold all the time. I am cold all the time. There is cold a-plenty. My friends, I have no shortage of shiver.

So, despite being utterly delighted that the rains have finally come in the nick of time to save all of Melbourne, nay Victoria, from blowing away in a puff of dust, I must admit to being a little peeved about the fact that I ride in on the big flying horse this morning only find myself sitting at a kitchen table shivering. I had to rifle the cupboards of this house to find a jumper, because I didn't pack one.

Yes, I know, it's Melbourne. I should have packed a jumper as well as an emergency Heat-Stroke Resucitation Pack. I am an idiot. A shivering one.