December 18: "Ice" (from W. Y. Traveller)
It was once again that time of the year when I wondered why on earth my ancestors had settled in such a cold place, and even more, why for so many generations on down to myself, we had all chosen to stay here. My own moving from Scotland down to London was some change, but brr! It was not enough. Winter after winter, frost after frost. It was perhaps a melodramatic thought, but I felt justified in a bit of internal whining when I awoke this morning shivering, old wound aching, and discovered that the hot water bottles had long since gone cold, the fire had burned down to a murky ash with just the hint of red glow, and there was frost on the inside of my window. The fire would not be difficult to rekindle, but it could not be done from the warmth of my bed. With a grunt, I sat up, and slipped my feet into ice cold slippers, teeth chattering as I snatched up a small log and the poker and crouched in front of the hearth. I was surprised that I could not see my breath. A few reluctant sparks fluttered when I jammed the poker into the ash, and I nestled the log in the newly-uncovered red coals. I threw a little kindling in with it, and gently discarding the poker, retreated to the safety of my bed.
But alas, it was no use. I was simply too uncomfortable now to sleep again. I stared at the window—not out the window, at it, for the layer of ice obscured any little view I might have had in the predawn light. I would have to go down to the sitting room and face the day ahead.