The temperature of romance

It's 32 degrees fahrenheit in my old office upstairs. This is the open plan landing area where the windows don't fit and the north wind whistles through the holes around them, which I blocked last year with Kleenex and parcel tape. Thank God I have moved my main computer into my bedroom.

I really don't know how I survived working up here in previous winters. It must have been like this in Victorian times, if they were too poor to light a fire. Now I only have to nip up here to to use the laptop. Like now. I brought a mug of tea with me and it has gone stone cold in ten minutes. I know I keep writing about it and probably boring you stupid, but it amazes me how Mr Grumpy can live like this.

Apparently, the Christmas after his previous partner died, the boiler failed and he got pneumonia but he still stayed here freezing his wotsits off. Bloody masochist! Mind you, this is the man who pulls out his own teeth when they give him trouble, and set his own leg when he broke it, and wouldn't go to hospital after his brain haemorrhage and strokes (not until I insisted and dialled 999 for him, anyway) so he probably IS a masochist!

He really is the oddest and most off the wall man I have ever met. Admirable in so many ways, yet in others, completely nuts. It's probably that combination that has kept me with him for almost 14 years. It's the longest relationship I've ever had and certainly the most interesting, yet conversely also the most uncomfortable and definitely the least passionate. Mr G's idea of a romantic physical gesture is ruffling my hair occasionally in passing. Hugs and kisses? Absolutely not. If you approach him and go to kiss him or put your arms round him, he flinches and shrinks and goes stiff as an ironing board. I sometimes feel I want to throw hot water over him to melt him a bit. He's not going to change now. Thank heavens I have someone else to cuddle. Flad!