My boiler is broken. Kaput. Knackered. Without boil. It is an ex-boiler. It is deceased. It is no more.
I'm exaggerating. I hope. The Boiler Man is coming on Thursday morning to either (a) make it all better and earn my love forever, or (b) tell me that it can only be fixed at vast expense and I should mortgage a kidney to pay for it.
Still, it's not like it's as cold as a cold thing from Coldville at the moment, eh?! (*shiver*)
Meanwhile, you find me writing this whilst wearing fleecy jarma bottoms, a jumper, a giant cardigan, two pairs of socks, a trashmina, and fingerless gloves, from my bed, where I am under the double thickness winter duvet and a blanket, with a hot water bottle and a mug of hot ribena (my current drug of choice).But I wonder if you think that I should knit myself one of these gorgeous combos, just to make sure I'm really snuggled right in? After all, these two cool dudes look VERY hot indeed!
I'm off under the duvet for the night. Think of me, you lucky centrally heated buggers. And if you get the chance, please send chunky knitteds.
