January, the longest month of the year by far, is, as usual, taking its own sweet time to progress. Whilst it meanders on, the weather oscillates from almost spring-like mildness to sub-zero ferocity, with little to no intermediary. It's therefore no real surprise to wake up to a baltic Tuesday after a clement Monday.

Cambridge is one of those places that doesn't need snow to enhance it - it already has its own magical, old-worldly charm - but the flurries come nonetheless. As soon as I step outside and leave the snug warmth of my room in second court, I'm assaulted by a biting wind that whips through the courtyard. Every exposed surface is covered with a blanket of whiteness. Unfortunately, as I find when I reach out to scoop some snow into my palm, it's not the soft, polystyrene kind that comes in useful for building ammunition to hurl at unsuspecting peers. Instead, it's crisp, useless stuff that saps every degree of body heat from my fingers.

More flakes are beginning to descend from the pale mauve clouds overhead, landing in huge splotches against my face and clothing. By the time I've trudged down the little path from the porter's lodge to the racks, unlocked my bike, and cleared the fresh, sleety deposit from the saddle, my woollen gloves are soaked through and rendered useless. I peel them off and stuff them into my pocket. I suppose that cycling in this weather is a pretty stupid plan but walking doesn't really appeal either.

Perhaps I should just stay in bed?

Riding a bike in this weather isn't just a silly idea; it's a downright crazy one, as I discover to my horror. Trying to steer this out-of-control contraption along frozen tarmac is fucking hair-raising and how I manage to stay upright is anyone's guess. As I skid and slide my way along King's Parade, icy-cold spray peppers my backside and soaks the toes of my tan suede boots.

Still miraculously unscathed by the time I turn left into Pembroke street, I keep my eyes peeled for a bike-sized space, somehow managing to spot a gap of empty railing between a bright red mountain bike and a shabby-looking racer. Silently congratulating myself on the find, I pull up in relief alongside, only to discover a ridiculous notice requesting people not to chain their bicycles there.

Of all the petty crap that Cambridge descends to, putting restrictions on railings when there aren't nearly enough bike-racks to go around, is just the worst.

Stupid bloody University. Do you want students to attend their courses or what?

I stand and glare at the free space, pondering my options. As the ironwork itself only seems to exist in order to support that particular sign and there's nowhere else around here to park, I decide to exercise the rebellious side of my nature. Jumping off my bicycle, I push it up the kerb and position it in place.

Take that, you officious piece-of-shit metal fence. That'll teach you for telling me where I can and can't leave my bike.

I reach around to take the bike locks out of my bag, and immediately hit another snag. For fuck's sake.

Perhaps I'm now being forbidden by the Universe from disobeying the pointless sign, because my hands are so devoid of sensation that I can't even open my bag to remove my bike locks. I fumble hopelessly with the canvas-and-metal buckles, but to no avail. It would almost be comical if I wasn't so annoyed about my fingers not submitting to my will, but time is ticking by, I'm going to be late for lectures and I'm all but yelling obscenities at my hands to hurry up and thaw the fuck out.

Just as I'm on the brink of really losing my shit, there's a tap on my shoulder.

"What?" I snap, before turning around and practically head-butting the scarf-clad neck of Al Potter.

Oops.

"Err, Sunita, are you okay?"

Oh Universe, why have you sent Al Potter to me now, when I'm in the midst of screaming profanities at myself?

Knees, for fuck's sake; get a grip and stop wobbling. Face, there's no need to go quite so maroon. Heart, he's not that hot. There's no need to jump into my throat and do the Lindy Hop.

Okay, he is that hot. Brain, you aren't helping. Quick, mouth; think of something to say.

"My fingers won't work," I blurt.

Brain, don't trust mouth ever again. Seriously, is that all you can come up with?

"That's unfortunate," replies Al, clearly struggling to suppress his amusement. He definitely heard me calling myself a fuckwit; no doubt about it. "Would you like a hand?"

What a time to play the pun card. "God, you're bloody hilarious," I groan. "Two, actually."

"Oh crap, I wasn't trying to be funny! Here, let me help."

"Okay. Thanks." I exhale slowly and try to prevent my features from morphing into full mortification mode. "Would you mind undoing the straps on my bag? My bike locks are in the main compartment."

Al frowns. "Your bye clocks? What are bye clocks?"

What?

"No - I said bike locks," I enunciate, as clearly as I can. Ok, posh boy, I'm a mere prole and I haven't got your expensive Eton school accent, but surely my English isn't that terrible?

He's still looking flummoxed. Admittedly, in a very cute sort of way, but flummoxed nonetheless.

I roll my eyes and repeat the phrase again, super slowly and loudly this time. "BIKE…LOCKS."

"Oh! Bike locks. Right. Of course. What do they look like?" Al asks, his voice muffled by his scarf as he bends down to undo the buckles of my bag.

I'm a bit puzzled by his question, because isn't it obvious? "Um, well they look like bike locks. Big, D-shaped and metal. You know, as in typical locks for bikes?"

He gazes at me blankly. Seriously, has this boy never secured a bike before? He's clearly never stolen one as he'd definitely know what bike locks are if he had.

With difficulty, because my hands are still being useless, I extract two large, heavy D-shaped articles from my open bag and hold them up between my wrists. "Exhibit A. Bike locks."

He examines them curiously, almost as if he's not sure what to make of these strange artefacts. They are both unlocked and ready for use so it's just a case of attaching them to the forbidden bit of railing and securing them around my bike, but it's still a task too far for my poor fingers.

"Bollocks," I grumble, dumping the locks on the floor and blowing frantically on my hands in an effort to defrost my fingers. Which, unsurprisingly, doesn't work at all.

"You really are frozen. Come here."

Without warning, Al reaches out and takes my hands in both of his. I can barely feel the texture of his woollen palms but the warmth they exude is almost like a furnace against my cold skin. Very soon, not only are my hands tingling, but my face is too.

"I can practically feel how chilly your hands are through my gloves," he remarks, massaging my fingers gently to encourage some circulation.

"Well, you know what they say. 'Cold dead hands, cold dead heart,'" I squeak in embarrassment, my voice coming out several octaves higher than it's supposed to.

Al laughs. "I'm sure it's 'cold hands, warm heart.' Here." He drops my hands, removes his gloves and passes them to me. "Your need is greater than mine."

"But what about your hands?" I reply, an empty attempt at concern. Although the gesture makes me feel super awkward and I'm sure my face is reaching heights of crimson it has never before aspired to, my fingers are actually in fucking agony and I'm quite eager to get them inside some cosy gloves as soon as possible.

"They'll manage," he says, which is a relief because I'm now wearing his gloves and they are so incredibly toasty that I'm not in any rush to part with them. Ever.

"Well, if you're sure. Thanks."

"No problem. Would you like me to help with your bike?"

"That would be awesome," I reply, as the feeling begins to slowly return to my fingers. "Oh my God, Al, your gloves are so warm and soft, like kitten fur! It's like they have their own clever heating system built in to them. How do they do that? Are they made of some fancy material?"

I swear something akin to alarm flashes across Al's face, but it's gone just as quickly as it arrived, leaving me wondering whether I imagined it. I study him curiously for a moment, but his expression remains steadfastly neutral no matter how closely I examine it.

"They're just wool, I think," he shrugs nonchalantly. "So, your bike. Should I?"

I eye him doubtfully and hold the locks out.

Al takes both D-locks from me and begins to waft them about aimlessly. "How do they work?"

I duck, in case I get hit by a bit of loose flying metal. "Not by waving them," I mutter.

"So which part goes where?"

He turns the locks this way and that, his head tilted slightly to one side. There's something quite endearing about his confused expression as he tries to fathom them out.

"Take that U-shaped bit and slide it behind the railing - yes, really; that bit of railing that says 'No Bikes'. It wants to be level with the down tube - no, those are the handle-bars, that's the down tube," I say, pointing vaguely to the relevant part of the frame. "Then lock the straight-bar bit onto the U-shape, so that the bike and railing are in-between the two components of the lock. Now do the same but through the railing and spokes of the back wheel." I shake my arms vigorously, trying to jolt some more blood along in the general direction of my hands.

"Does that look right?" Al surveys his work critically, and then turns to me, as though I'm going to give it a mark out of ten.

"They look perfect," I reply with what I hope is an encouraging smile. "Thanks for doing that."

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and we start walking the short distance to the lecture theatre. Al seemed excessively pleased by his "bye clock" achievement, which is rather sweet, but also bizarrely naive for someone who's got to be at least nineteen or twenty, and is possibly older.

What is his age, I wonder? My investigative nature gets the better of me and I have to ask him outright.

"How old are you, Al?"

"Nineteen, why?"

"Just wondering, that's all."

"Actually, it's my twentieth soon," he adds.

"Oh. Got any plans?"

"Just drinks with some friends. If you're not doing anything, you could come along if you like?" he says idly. "I've already asked a few people from our course."

"When is it?"

"1st of February."

"I'll try and make it," I say, trying to sound vague and disinterested, as though I always get invited to the birthday parties of good-looking guys and Al's is yet another one to pen into my social diary.

Must not read too much into it; he is probably inviting me out of politeness, or pity, or a need to make up numbers.

We reach the bottom of the steps outside the lecture theatre. I take off Al's gloves and give them back to him. "Thanks so much for lending me these. Although I kind of feel a bit guilty as your hands must be bloody icicles by now."

Al lifts a hand and places the back of it lightly against my cheek. I flinch slightly in anticipation of sharp iciness, but his skin is surprisingly warm, even against the heat of my face, which promptly quivers pleasurably under his touch.

"See? Not cold at all."

"Thank goodness for that," I laugh casually, in an effort to downplay the electrifying contact, as my face continues to burn.

As we walk on, I mull over the invitation. Something about Al's birthdate, the 1st of February, bothers me. That's this Sunday, isn't it? And - oh fuck - that's the day I agreed to date Paul, because we were both a bit annoyed at Jonty and I felt sorry for him feeling that way about his best friend.

Bollocks.

Damn me and my overzealous nature; I knew I should have held back. I knew there was bound to be something in my future that I should have waited for, but there's no way I can back out of my date with Paul now; my conscience would annihilate me.

I emit a small, rueful sigh.

"I've just remembered," I say, turning to face Al as we reach the lecture theatre doors. "The 1st of February is this Sunday, isn't it? I can't come - I've already made plans for that evening."

"No worries," he says pleasantly, without even the barest hint of sorrow, much to my inner disappointment. "Another time, perhaps."

Guess he was just asking out of politeness after all.

"Yeah. Another time," I reply, a little crushed.

"After you."

He holds the heavy door open to let me through first and we descend the lecture theatre steps in silence together before departing for our usual seats.

"Morning Sunny, you're well late!" Saffron says gloatingly, having beaten me to lectures for the third time ever. "What's your excuse? Forceps? Flat tyre? Jonty, in the refectory, with the marmalade?"

"None of the above," I reply snippily, extracting my MODA handbook from my bag and clumping her over the head with it before flipping it open to today's lecture notes.

"Oh. Are you not having a nice day? An ice day, geddit?" She pokes me jauntily with her elbow, making me scowl.

"Saff, that was terrible, and I bet it wasn't even your joke."

"It was Lenny's," she giggles, not in the slightest bit ashamed of recycling such ghastly humour. "Anyway, I'm sorry, Sunny. I thought it would make you smile."

"Snow worries," I quip, suddenly guilty that Saffron is bearing the brunt of my mood. "I'm just freezing, that's all. Once I've warmed up, I'll be fine."

*****

My hands have just about fully regained their functionality by the time the first lecture is over. It's the interval and a couple of older students are making their way between the tiers of seats, clipboards and bags in hand. One of the guys stops at our row.

"Excuse me?" he says with a friendly smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but would any of you be interested in a ticket or two for the MedSoc Valentine dance? We've only got twenty-three left to sell. Go on; it's for a couple of excellent causes."

"Which are?" Yoshi asks, eyeing the unknown male suspiciously.

"Unicef and Glioblastoma research, in aid of one of our clinical students who was diagnosed last summer. You might have heard about her - Ajalita Coggins, fifth year Robinson student."

"Oh yeah. I remember reading something about her in the autumn news bulletin," replies Yoshi vaguely.

"I'm already going," says Saffron. "Jude, are you?"

"I wasn't going to."

"Oh please say Yes. It's for charity. And it will be fun. Boys, are you in? Let's have a group outing!"

"Let's not," I mutter.

"Don't be a misery, Sunny. Act your name for once. Lenny, what about you? Aren't you tempted? India might be there."

"Hmm," says Leonard, considering. "Are you going, Al?"

"Yup," says Al with a slight grimace. "Orla told me I have to attend."

"So under the thumb; I like it!"

"Ronnie, what about you?"

"Yeah, I'll go if you're all planning to. It's only ten quid, right?" Veronica rummages in her bag and pulls out her purse. "Hang on a sec. I'll just check if I've got enough cash."

"Jude, please say Yes?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, go on then."

"Yay! It'll be brilliant, I promise."

"Riiiiight," replies Judith doubtfully, but she's stifling a smile, so I know she's not really that put out about it.

"I'll go if Lenny and Sunny go," says Yoshi, shifting his glance between me and Leonard.

"I'm not sure," I grumble, digging my feet in.

"Oh come on, Sunny - it'll be awesome!"

"Mate, you know I'm not a dressy-uppy person. I have nothing suitable to wear."

"I've got the perfect dress and shoes for you."

"Perfect? Out of your wardrobe? Will it cover my tits and arse at the same time? Or will I just look like I'm wearing a glorified belt?"

Judith lets rip a peal of laughter whilst Saffron looks offended.

"Were you just talking about your boobs and bottom, Jelly-tot? Do carry on."

"Oh piss off, Lenny."

"I can't believe you're being so rude about my clothes!"

"Your dresses are tiny, Saff, and frankly, they don't leave much to the imagination."

"You'll like this one, I promise. It's plum, not too clingy, sabrina neckline and knee-length. Honestly, it'll look amazing on you."

"What the fuckity-fuck is a sabrina neckline?"

"Otherwise known as a boatneck. Kind of goes straight across the neck and shoulders and yes, you can wear a bra with it."

The guy selling the tickets takes on a pained expression and drags a hand through his mousey hair. "Look. As much as I'd love to hang around here and listen to you lot harping on about necklines and goodness knows what, I have a job to get on with. Do you people want tickets or not?"

"Yes, we do!" Saffron fishes a twenty-pound note out of her purse and slaps it into the hand of the waiting guy, who rapidly peels off two slips of paper in return.

"Just two tickets?"

"One for Sunny and one for Jude," says Saffron promptly. "Yoshi and Lenny can pay for themselves."

"Saff!" I squawk. "Will you stop making decisions for me?"

"Oh shut up bloody complaining, woman. You're going, and that's that."

"Don't suppose I've got much choice in the matter, do I? Thanks," I say grudgingly. "I'll get you a tenner out of the cashpoint at lunchtime."

"Forget it. I'm getting your trouser-suit, remember? It's more than a fair swap."

"Great. So I trade something I don't like, for something else I'm not going to like. Winning at fucking life, here."

"Aww, can't we keep talking about dresses and Sunny's backside?"

"Only if you promise to wear a frock to the dance, Lenbot."

"Now that would definitely be worth turning up for," says Yoshi sagely.

"Oh bollocks to this snow!" I exclaim in exasperation, looking out through Pembroke's refectory window and watching in despair as more white stuff descends from the leaden sky. Morning lectures are over and we're lunching at Al's college for a change. Sadly, the weather hasn't improved at all. If anything, it's deteriorating.

"I wish it would just piss off. It's not wanted here."

"But it's so pretty," murmurs Saffron dreamily.

"It might be, but I've got to cycle back in it after anatomy. And fuck," I groan, reaching into my coat pocket and extracting two bedraggled gloves which I slap onto the dinner table in dismay. "These are still soggy from this morning."

"You'd be mad to ride back to St John's in this," says Judith soberly. "The roads will be lethal. I'm being serious, Sunny; don't do it."

"Well I could walk, I suppose, but I've left my bike attached to a section of railing that expressly states 'No Bikes', and the chance of it still being there tomorrow or the day after, is slim to none," I reply gloomily. "It'll get confiscated and destroyed by the bloody bike police."

"Sunny, you prat," says Saffron, not very helpfully. "Why did you leave it there?"

"Why do you think? There weren't any spaces anywhere else. I wasn't flouting rules for shits and giggles, you know."

"Why don't you leave it here at Pembroke instead?" Al suggests. "Stick it in our bike shed until the weather improves."

"Are you sure? Won't your porters throw it out for being unregistered?"

"I'll just say it's mine."

"Al, it's lilac and sparkly and has a wicker basket at the front. What the fuck will the porters think when you ask them to put your security tag on it?"

"Are you suggesting I'm not in touch with my feminine side?"

"But lilac, darling? It's so not your colour."

"Al, you've got a feminine side?!"

"Everyone knows our little Iced Gem is well and truly at one with his femininity," says Leonard proudly, slinging an arm around Al. "As we all are."

"Speak for your bloody self," says Judith bluntly, ripping into a chicken drumstick and gnawing at it like a hungry animal just to prove her point.

I watch in fascinated revulsion for a moment before turning away and facing Al. "Actually, I think I'll take you up on that offer of bike storage. Thanks."

"No problem," he replies, getting up from the table. "Come on, Sunny. We may as well move it now, before it gets any worse out there."