I have to admit that I rather like this cold, clear weather. At least the sun is shining.
Yesterday morning, Kris and I sat in the parlor — she with her book, I with my laptop — and basked in the sunlight, which filtered through the tall windows. All four cats joined us.
Nemo sat on a bench, squinting and smiling into the sun. Meatball lounged on the floor. Simon sniffed the furniture to be sure that nothing had changed. Toto stood around and glowered at her brothers.
It was a warm feeling, both in terms of temperature and emotion. My toes were cold (because our floor is never warm), but I was wearing slippers, so that mitigated some of the discomfort. I wrote. Kris read. The cats were cats.
At one point, Simon decided he had had enough of sniffing furniture, so he turned his attention to his little brother. He walked to the bench, stood on his haunches, and grappled with Nemo. Nemo squeaked and tried to fight back, but ran in retreat after Simon hopped up and applied the full weight of his sixteen pounds. (Though Simon only weighs sixteen pounds — a fact we verified yesterday afternoon — he seems to way twenty. Or more. He's a fat boy. I've begun to call him "Jumbo", which he doesn't appreciate.)
Simon wandered off to watch birds out the kitchen window. Meatball took his place on the bench. Nemo hopped on the love seat, looking for a place that he might escape Simon's notice. Toto glowered. I wrote. Kris read.
Simon returned from his bird-watching duties and looked at the bench. He seemed disappointed to find Meatball in Nemo's place, but then he decided, "What the hell." He walked to the bench, stood on his haunches, and grappled with Meatball. Meatball has not yet learned his place. He's deferent to the other cats. So when Simon whapped him, Meatball didn't know what to do. He whapped back, but without much conviction. Poor Meatball.
The temperature dropped to -8 degrees centigrade at home last night. According to my weather station, it's -8.8 degrees centigrade here at the shop even as I type. This wouldn't be so bad if it were warm in my office. But it's not.
My office is warmed by a tiny space heater. If it's left to run around the clock, it can generally handle the heating chores on normal January days. But when it's this cold, and when the thing has been turned down for the weekend, my office turns into an icebox. It was barely 10 degrees centigrade in here when I got to work this morning. It's only 13.0 degrees centigrade now. My fingers are cold. They're not numb, but they're cold. Periodically, I set the heater on my lap and hug it to my chest. Ouch. It hurts so good...