Winter

I'm freezing cold.  I don't think I've been warm once in the last two days.  My dismal council flat doesn't warm up at all, even with the heating turned to "snow" (that temperature on the boiler gauge that comes somewhere after 50 degrees) but then my flat is never warm.  Except in summer.  Was it really summer for eight months last year?  A distant memory.  I usually love winter.  It's the only time London feels clean and the ghastly pall of pollution lifts slightly so that you can breathe.  For a while it seemed we weren't going to get winter at all - while half the country was being washed away in floods, London was brightly entering spring.  Daffodils came up in November and the magnolia tree on Tavistock Square had its blooms out in January.  But jolly January has been followed by freezing February and I'm even considering wearing pyjamas to bed.  I can't sleep in clothes.  It's just weird.  But waking up several times in the night with the fleshiest part of my arms feeling like frozen meant (urk) has made me wish for something like a, well, a t-shirt would probably do it.  
Coincedentally, my novel has entered winter too.  Life imitating art?