RIP Thermoboy

Blood this morning 5.2. Yesterday, by the way, 5.3.

Now, I have to report another death.
When d arrived in this quaintly piddling little country seven years one month and one day ago, we both knew where we stood. She always freezing, and I was Thermoboy, the roasty toasty hunka hunka burnin' love (her words, not mine, so don't even try to blame me!) who could be relied upon to warm her frozen toes in an unfamiliar, culinarily challenged country.

Now, I'm not claiming this is a result of seven additional years in her case and this Disappearing lark in mine, but somewhere along our story so far, something about sharing a life, a house, and everything that comes with it, we appear to have done a polar flip. I woke up this morning in my Edwardian nightshirt, underwear and socks, under a pile of blankets laying like an IHOP wonderland (Brits - it's an American thing. There's a procedure. You look it up. You drool. You take to the streets in a towering, sugar-deprived rage and then you smash Downing Street to smithereens till there's a franchise over here). I was shivering like a terrified snowman with St Vitus' Dance. When I opened my eyes, d was already awake, playing Angry Birds on her phone, having flung every last remnant of blanketage off herself.
"How..." I shuddered. "How l-l-long've you been awake?"
"'bout half an hour," she said. "Too freakin' hot..."
"H-h-h-hot?" I chattered, disbelieving. "H-h-h-how?"
"Freakin' roasting in here," she said, with the kind of certainty usually resigned for lines like "Let There Be Light!"
"Ah-h-ha," I shuddered, pulling the blankets up over my head. Then I thought better of it, pulled them back down again.
"You're a freak, you know that?" I managed, without my teeth chattering once.

There are days of course when you spring out of your bed and walk five miles. Then there are days when even the thought of getting out of your (actually inside-out) Edwardian nightshirt and socks. The underwear, you'll be thrilled to learn, I changed. But that was my only concession to cleanliness this morning (one of the benefits of having one part time colleague, and another who's pissing about in San Francisco and all parts eastern). I pulled a T-shirt over my nightshirt got dressed the rest of the way, and headed out the door...

Thermoboy is now officially dead (it was hypo-bloody-thermia), while Inferna, Mistress of the Flames has been born to take his place.

Thing is, something else occurred to me on the tube into the office, which is sort of a consequence of the death of Thermoboy. I was sitting there, in my inside-out Edwardian nightshirt, with a T-shirt (with a line drawing of the Tardis on it, cos, y'know, I'm just that cool), with my iPod on, actually laughing till tears rolled down my chipmunk cheeks - I was listening to stand-up by Craig Ferguson, a Scottish comedian who, oddly enough, I'd have to explain to the Brits, but probably not the Americans, if I was gonna explain him to anyone, which I'm not. As I opened my eyes after laughing hard, I spotted something else. My flies were open, my bulgy fat-rolls more visible than noral. I did a quick re-run of my morning, remembered peeing before I left the house...didn't remember zipping up.

Y'know every now and then, I get accosted by nutters, whether they're Trekkies looking for a date or grizzled old blokes with young Chinese wives?

Struck me this morning I have buggerall to say - I was a still-fat fuck, beardy and bleary laughing till I cried in the middle of a packed tube train, with an inside-out nightshirt on, a Tardis T-shirt and gaping flies. If I wasn't still so fat, my too-cold-to-be-dangly bits could have been saying hello to the carriage and I could have been the subject of a citizen's arrest.

Weird is as weird does, I guess.
Going away now. Too bloody cold to sit here any longer.