Say you were my love in a faraway land, I would describe this morning to you thus: Everything outside my window looks like it needs to be vacuum-cleaned of mould. Or maybe that's too banal, a better and more beautiful sentence would be: There is fog all around like vague wisps of forgetfulness. Or I'd just say, blast it you're not here anyway so why bother telling, but just so you know I woke up this morning with my fists tucked under my stomach for warmth.

Predictably though, there is no love and no faraway land and no incentive to write anyone a letter, so I'll let you know of my socks. They contain cold toes. And I'll tell you of my nose, which when placed against your bare skin would most definitely induce a shudder like a cold pebble touching your neck. But mostly I will tell you of my hair which demands a shampoo even in this weather, I shall sit down with it hanging damp and cold down my back and write to you anyway. And if I debate the propriety of it I shall shrug once and go on, it is the body that responds to weather first, the mind merely follows suit. Like in so many other cases.