Feeling sorry for myself

I am sitting at my study window watching the lady over the road. She is standing in the front window ironing clothes. She is wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. I am wearing (not a pretty sight so be warned): thermal long johns, thermal long-sleeved T-shirt, fleecy black tracky bottoms, blue Regatta fleece, thermal socks
and black thermal slippers.

Why?

Answer: Mr Grumpy won't have the central heating on in the daytime. Which is when I sit up here in my open-plan study area which is a room with no door to close it off from the staircase, so my little fan heater doesn't warm it up. In fact, Mr G wastes more energy through using fan heaters than he would if he had the heating on.

It isn't the coldest day but the temperature where I work has only just crept above 50 degrees F. If I were working for a company, industrial working regulations would permit me to walk out, but I'm at home, so I can't. Unless I move out, and I tell you what, there are times when, sobbing on Mr G's bed because I am so cold and miserable, I really, really feel like it. He has a lovely office which is a real room with a door that closes so he can get it nice and toasty. It looks out onto the garden and is the only peaceful room in the house. But it is his house, so it is his office. When I complain, he tells me to go down to the shed and work there.

Please pray for a lottery win for me so I can buy the nice, warm home that I crave for, near my friends, so I can be happy, warm, creative and have fun again.

'Nuff said. I shall now do 20 star jumps to try and warm up.