In Cold House

Having complained non-stop for the past week about how freakishly mild the weather has been for mid-January, a gripe propelled by an An-Inconvenient-Truth-inspired panic about global warming and drowning polar bears, it is with some hypocrisy that I must now moan about how insufferably cold it has suddenly become in the past 48 hours. The temperature has dropped to a point where I am unable to prevent audible and embarrassing brrrr noises escaping from my mouth when I walk outside - and although there is no external evidence to prove I have frostbite on my fingers after this afternoon's scooter ride to South Ken, I would argue vehemently with any medical professional who denied that I was exhibiting symptoms.

Although the heating at home is more than adequate, I was unable to warm up this evening, and resolved to have a piping hot bath the moment Celebrity Big Brother was over. Thus, at 10pm, I walked upstairs, turned on the taps, and continued up to my room to check my emails. Too many minutes later, I resurfaced from the internet vortex and realised with a shock that my bath could well be overflowing. I scampered gracelessly downstairs, dreading the sheet of water pouring over the edge - but what I found was, I eventually realised, far worse.

The bath had not run over and felt quite acceptable to the touch. I ripped off my clothes, stepped in and lay down. It was then that I realised my frostbitten fingers and icy, circulation-free feet had not given an accurate indication of the bath's temperature. Lukewarm would be a compliment. At best, it was tepid. The anticipation of warmth I had experienced moments before now evaporated entirely. I was cold, wet and covered in goosebumps. I became extremely nostalgic for the time when I'd been merely cold. The state of 'dryness' took on a previously unappreciated value. And although I'd been spared the clichéd hell of an overflow, I was now deep in the humiliating wastefulness that is a bath full of unwanted water - not only was I not hot, I was needlessly using up the earth's resources. I was cold and evil.

It had all been too much. Eventually the faithful boiler replenished its supplies but it was too little too late - I'd been defeated, unable to linger any longer. Now I'm back upstairs, flannel pyjamas and fleecy slippers positioned appropriately on my person, novelty Zippy-from-Rainbow hot water bottle clutched to my abdomen. I'm still cold, but at least I've learned an important life lesson: never sit down to read the Oscar Nominations online when I've got taps running. I blame Helen Mirren.