morning head: Thermostat.

I stayed in my father-in-law’s place a while back, on the tail end of a New Jersey winter, warm enough to be out in a t-shirt during the day. The house has more occupants than it used to, and in his absence, we stayed in the master bedroom. The thermostat is cranked up to Unwelcoming, the heated floor in the en-suite set to 99°F. 99 fucking degrees1

It was summarily switched off, windows cracked, electric blanket unplugged at the wall.

It’s impossible to sleep in such conditions, like trying to drive when the cold-blooded passenger has the hot air in the car blasting in your face so hard the mucus in your sinuses has dried solid, and your eyelids have fused to your desiccated eyeballs.

Like the diminution of the House of Isildur, the wifey’s desperate need to be at all times enveloped in a cocoon of hellish heat has been somewhat lessened by the mixing of her father’s bloodline. Somewhat. But I’m still in the Doghouse, which leaves me the option to sleep with the balcony door cracked – that is, to sleep and actually be able to breathe at the same time.

Which is all good. Until the temperature really drops. It’s like a fucking Scottish summer in here this morning, and I’ve become blasé, sleeping without socks or pants or twelve bloody blankets.

I’m pretty sure it’ll be January before I can feel my extremities again.

1 – That’s 37.222°, for the antipodean contingent