Chill Winston

The House of Pumpernickel is freezing. In the tradition of British country houses this 12-bedroom manor is absolutely BALTIC. In order to keep costs down the current heir, Lord Pumpernickel Jnr, has declared the heating is to be kept off in all rooms except for the kitchen and her Ladyship’s bedroom & bathroom. As we have recently had another flurry of late winter snow it’s as cold as charity round here.

As a natural defence mechanism my body hair seems to have grown at double its usual rate and I’ve lost my razor. There are bushels of luxourious hair under my arms, so abundant I’m having trouble putting my arms down properly and am swaggering about in the manner of an over-pumped, neck-less, weightlifter. My leg hairs are so long that they have developed split-ends. Things are generally ‘a little 70’s’ all round.

Still not quite warm enough I’ve taken to wearing long socks under my slacks (I love that word, slacks…slaacks.) These are not cute schoolgirl knee-high socks; no these are more in the style of Vrystaat Farmer. Looking down one might actually mistake my legs for those of a middle-aged farmer as stray hairs escape out of the top of the socks and the remainder of my downy growth elevating the socks a good centimetre away from my leg.

Despite these precautions moving from room to room is like stepping into a blast chiller. A point that Lady Pumpernickel never fails to bring up, blaming me for the inadequate heating in the house. I think that living in a walk in freezer has finally got to the old girl as she has been going to bed increasingly early and is now flatly refusing to get up. A bloody good idea if you ask me, where’s my duvet?