Very lovely house

I am sitting in my house - which is a very lovely house - in NZ. It has hard wood floors, two living areas, three fireplaces (one in my bedroom), big sash windows, a big bathroom and kitchen, funky paintwork and a huge garden.

And it is the coldest place in the known world.

NZ is a semi tropical country. It gets warm in Summer. Unlike Ireland, it actually gets a summer. Everyone knows this. Everyone talks about this. The nation celebrates this by throwing themselves with alacrity into pretty much every outdoor sport know to man. And then beating every other nation who has ever played this sport.

Then winter starts. And you mention that it's Winter. Those Kiwis who have done their OE jostle your elbow and say, "Oh yes but it's nothing like London/Dublin/ Fill In At Random. You should be used to it. This is nothing. Balmy even." Those who haven't kind of look into the middle distance and act as if you've just mentioned your terrible case of intestinal worms or that time you were stranded on a dessert island and were forced to eat a small but brilliant child to survive. And then they return to their draughty villas, with rattling windows, gaps under doors the cat can squeeze through and UNDER NO CICUMSTANCES ANY CENTRAL HEATING.

So I have the fire blazing and it heats five centemetres in front of itself and the rest goes out into the hall, out the window or through the doorless doorway into the second living area. And I am sitting three metres away because it really is a lovely roomy house freezing my arse off despite two jumpers and some ugg boots.

I have a glass of red wine that is colder than the white wine my flatmate just took form the fridge and when we went outside to measure the driveway to see if the firewood delivery truck will fit in on Saturday, it was warmer outside!