After the recent scorching temperatures (during which my wife, as a pleasant change, never once vocalised her standard 'I'm cold' complaint), the temperature dipped below 20 for about five minutes earlier today. This of course had her panicking that the next ice age was upon us, and saw her rush to ensure both stoves in the house were packed to the brim with logs, and achieved a temperature that would melt lead. Having spent the evening repairing machinery in an airless barn sweating like a Glaswegian watching Crimewatch, I was anticipating a comfortable shower, and an evening in front of the TV. However, reality saw me bearing my overheated discomfort all evening with only minor complaints, despite my arse cheeks feeling as though someone had poured a bottle of Crisp n' Dry down my trousers, and having disconcertingly watched my tattoos gently slide from my skin. You can then perhaps imagine my chagrin when she then decided (5 minutes before our usual retiring hour) that she was 'too hot', and proceeded to open every bloody door in the house.
I'll give it fifteen minutes until I hear, 'I'm cold'

I'll give it fifteen minutes until I hear, 'I'm cold'
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