Jack Frost

It’s bleedin’ freezin’. As night time temperatures plummeted, Liam extracted his Dennis the Menace jim-jams from the bottom of the wardrobe, unrolled the woolly socks, re-commissioned the hot water bottle and upped the tog with an extra duvet on the bed. It’s icy times like this when I most appreciate not sleeping alone. As night progresses, we weave together, limbs entwined like a French plait, sometimes opting for periods of alternate spooning.

Come sweaty August nights, it’ll be a different story entirely. We’ll roll to opposite sides of the bed in a fruitless attempt to cool our clammy old hides.

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