Baked Alaska

Sunday January 2, 2005


Stickford, Jan 2,'05
Oh, no! Not Baked Alaska!


It’s turned suddenly rather cold, in that penetrating way that gets into the bones and takes an awful lot of shifting.

I’m feeling it rather more than normally I would because otherwise I’m going through one of those hot-hot-hot periods when I can’t bear to be covered up—throwing the covers off at night and wandering about the house in shorts and t-shirt all day. And yet my bones have a real case of the shivers. Graham tells me the house is running at normal temperatures, and the thermostat agrees with him. No reason why either of them should tell me anything other than the truth but even so I’m suffering mightily, frozen on the inside, roasting on the outside.

It’ll be a while before I can face a baked alaska again.

So, apart from dashing out once in the small hours because I felt so hot I couldn’t bear it anymore, and again this morning when I took out the kitchen trash after feeding Harry and Dolly, I’ve taken the wise man’s course and ignored it all, turning to my computer for distraction and relief. It’s only now, when I come to review my notes of the day that I realize just how uncomfortable I’ve been.

“You’re not sickening for something, are you?” asked Graham, all concern.

“Nah. Feel fit as a fiddle. Everything is functioning. It’s just a case of the hot flushes, I think. It’ll go away in a couple of days, see if it don’t.”

“I thought it was only women of a certain age that have hot flushes.”

“Don’t you believe it. Blokes get it, too. Just not so bad. Or for so long.”

“Oh. So that means…”

“Yup. You have this to look forward to.”

“Thank you. Just what I needed.”

“I do try.”

Serves him right for being so smug yesterday. And so right. Can’t be doing with people who are smug when they’re right.

 

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