(365 ± 30) days ago

It was (365 ± 30) days ago that I had a nightly routine (a ritual, almost), which now seems to unfortunately have been lost to me. I would clutch close to me either a glass of creamy Irish Bailey's or red wine (or a hot mug of chamomile tea other nights when I was feeling decidedly less "European"), don my warm and fluffy house slippers to keep my toes snug, wrap my pyjamas tight and close to me, and venture to the large, blue oak door with the brass door handle that stood at the end of the entrance hall; grasping the knob with my free hand, I would, with a great effort, pry open the magical portal. (I'm sounding a tad akin to a modern and slightly less long-winded Proust now - just goes to show what Swann's Way is doing to me…) 

I would thereby stand at the convergence of that fierce and icy cold without and that toasty, homely warmth within, exposed savagely to a strange mélange of sensations of tingling and shuddering, and that sense of pleasurable warmth that courses through one's body and veins, brought about by the exquisiteness of a touch of alcohol - this can only be described as purest Gemütlichkeit. An expanse of white snow would unveil itself before me as in a fairy tale, a noble bed of immaculate white receiving the gentle caresses of newly-fallen flakes, a blanket of purity to be ruthlessly desecrated the next morning by vicious and happy children - but that would at least spell an end to the asphyxiated misery of whatever blades of withering grass remained unconsciously existing beneath. 

It's been a year, plus-minus, since I last had the chance of being embraced by nature almost in the comfort of my own home. Perhaps I don't do this much anymore since it's just too warm this winter (5˚ at night - that's indeed warm - eat your hearts out, people stuck back in truly hot and humid Singapore) and not a freak -15˚ as it was last year. Or maybe it's just that I've gotten lazy and my bed just seems a little more welcoming than the cold beyond. Or maybe it's just that conspicuous dearth of snow this time around, the lack of that something that makes this gloomy time of year truly etwas Besonderes.