I’m worried. The temperature is 23 degrees Celsius and I’m shivering in my trackies, uggies and a chunky jumper that looks like it was designed by the people who brought you the Snuggie blanket.
To be honest, I’d kill for a Snuggie right now. But why is it that anytime the temperature drops below 25 degrees it feels like arctic thaw is camped off the coast of Sydney?
The thing is I normally love autumn and winter. When else can you sink red wine and chow down your own body weight in carbs and hot chocolates and have it feel so right? When else can you not worry about spiders invading your personal space and enjoy the smug reassurance of a person who knows it’s at least 180 shopping days till Christmas. That’s my kind of season.
But 23 degrees and reaching for the Snuggie and dressing like a Santa Claus version of Barry O’Farrell? It’s enough to make you want to hide in bed in the foetal position with the electric blanket up on high and have someone bring you hot chocolates.