Dear December Reader,
Since we’ve had the thermostat set lower, when I wake early I’ve enjoyed staying nested beneath three layers of blankets and duvet covers until I absolutely have to get up. But a few mornings ago, the first thing I read was this poem by Dick Davis (with its glorious puppies and children and pig-pen - I love his fond terms for a racing mind), and something about that final line seemed to prise me from my bed.
6 A.M. Thoughts
As soon as you wake they come blundering in
Like puppies or importunate children;
What was a landscape emerging from mist
Becomes at once a disordered garden.And the mess they trail with them! Embarrassments,
Anger, lust, fear – in fact the whole pig-pen;
And who’ll clean it up? No hope for sleep now –
Just heave yourself out, make the tea, and give in.
Although I didn’t make any tea. Instead, I shut myself in the living room, where I (noiselessly1) began moving all the furniture around. For several years, we’ve had a big sofa in our bay window - I like how nicely contained it feels to sit in an alcove and it’s also the best spot to see the birds flitting between the hedge and a small acer tree - it’s magical to watch them being so busy just a metre away and at eye-height, too. The downside of this arrangement was that the sofas have never really facilitated television-watching, with just one prime viewing spot and everyone else sat at odd angles. The other major issue was that THE SOFA COVERED THE ENTIRE RADIATOR (yes, in current times that statement should probably be accompanied by the violin screeching sound effect from Psycho). So this morning, I moved everything around and when it was all done, my son appeared, sat down, noticed the new viewing situation he’d have and said, ‘This is good. It’s like a proper house now.’ I glowed at the unexpected praise, although it’s a shame I’m only achieving proper house status when he’s eighteen and will soon be leaving home.
Over a decade ago we spent a week in Sweden, where, with the windchill, it was -40. Our eyelashes and eyebrows froze and I had a weird sensation of something wedged inside my nose, only later realising that’s just how it feels to house a tiny forest of ice-capped cilia2. After several days we changed locations (place name momentarily forgotten), and on our first morning there we unzipped our coats exclaiming over the relative warmth and were shocked to later learn it was still only -10 degrees.
I’ve been waiting for this shift in perception to happen around our thermostat this year which is set at 18 degrees. I’ve been permanently cold, while my husband has wafted around the house in a thin shirt claiming he’s just right. I’m paraphrasing and realise I’ve probably used Goldilocks’ words because every time he says this I feel like he’s actually stolen something from me and must be heat hoarding somehow. And in a way, he is. Eighteen degrees is not the same for him as it is for me - l’ve laid my icy palms on his warm face to prove it. I still haven’t got used to that temperature, but with the extreme cold snap this week I’ve just turned up the thermostat to 19.5 and realise my body has been quietly adjusting in the background, because this now seems like a perfect level of warmth when in any other year it would have felt arctic.
Chatting with friends, it seems most of us are turning down thermostats, changing the way we cook, and a whole list of other shifts in habit. But we are also lucky, because we still arrive at one another’s houses for the evening with a bottle in hand and we can still afford books and other treats. And so I’ve kept wondering, what’s causing even those of us who suffer the cold with difficulty, to choose to sacrifice heat and energy use before so many other things?3 My friend Becky has a habit of drawing most things back to evolution and I’m always struck by how much sense this makes - however sophisticated our world might be, we are all still relatively primitive creatures whose instincts and basic needs remain hardwired. I’m wondering if maybe subconsciously we know we can forgo any number of luxuries if need be, but a threat to heat and light makes us want to prioritise putting strategies in place around these things to reassure ourselves we can survive with less.
It’s surprised me to realise how much lowering the thermostat has also altered my perception of the seasons, too - I’ve always loved winter and that feeling of being cosy inside while it’s freezing outside (I’m sure there must be a word for this in another language?), but until recently I hadn’t realised that’s actually the main (possibly only) reason for my enjoyment of it. And that without it, I might be in favour of cancelling September to April entirely.
A few weekends’ ago, I drove down to Rye to visit Merchant & Mills. I’m making my husband this piece of clothing for Christmas and was winneting about over choices even after sending off for samples…sometimes you just need to wind a hunk of fabric from the bolt to get a proper sense of its drape. If you’re a dressmaker, visiting the shop in person is the most lovely experience - in the middle of browsing I looked up and realised it was just full of women looking exquisitely, gloriously, radiantly happy as they pored (or maybe pawed 🐾 ) over fabric. I think the joy is that it all feels so wearable with their emphasis on natural fibres and toned-down colours and prints. But anyway, the drive over also made me think about changes in perception of distance. Three years ago, when my daughter and I visited lots of universities as she tried to narrow down what and where she wanted to study, I got so used to spending nine hours on a train in a single day. And in the years since, our fifty minute train journey to get into London has changed its shape for me, never really returning to the arduous thing it was before that time (and I think that view was formed by having previously lived in central London). By contrast, car journeys remain unchanged. In theory, in the same fifty minutes I can pop up to London on the train, I can also get down to Rye in the car, but in my head it’s a far greater leap. I think this is different for people who live out in the country (and doubly so if you live in the Australian outback: ‘I can take you - it’s just down the road,’ someone once said to my husband. It was a FOUR HOUR DRIVE). And I’ve just realised I’ve taken you on a perception detour in the middle of discussing Merchant & Mills (although I guess how long that detour felt may depend on whether you’re currently working your way through War & Peace…).
Diversion Ended. One of the lovely things about visiting Merchant & Mills in person (apart from the fact that they give such helpful advice and are happy to answer endless fabric and making questions) is that they have samples you can try on. Even trying something on in the wrong size gives a good idea of what pattern changes you might want to make before you come to sew one up yourself - I’m not sure I would have even considered making a Haremere Coat if I hadn’t seen a beautiful sample hanging on the rail. But I tried it on just to see (yes, that slippery slope) and fell in love. For fellow dressmakers who might be interested, the Haremere pattern is in the Merchant & Mills’ workbook - there’s a photo of it if you swipe through the images. Maddeningly the pattern is unlined, but still, it’s lovely :)
For the most part, I’m a huge fan of Ian McEwan’s books, but then just occasionally I come across one I don’t love so much. I’m currently about a quarter of the way through Lessons (a book group choice I’d originally been excited about) and it seems like it might fit into the latter category for me - I keep finding myself having the same internal conversation every evening when I go to cook dinner and put on an audiobook4: Come on Florence, if you just listen to a bit here and there, it will be done in no time. And each time I’ve ignored my own advice and put on Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead instead. Her story follows Demon from birth into adulthood and centres around the US opioid epidemic and its impact on children. The subject matter didn’t initially draw me to it, but then I heard Barbara interviewed and was totally blown away by the story of how she found inspiration for the book’s structure with her head laid on Charles Dickens’ desk (the book’s title obviously taking inspiration from David Copperfield - I say obviously only because it probably is to most people, although it’s the kind of thing my brain often doesn’t pick up on until it’s pointed out, so that explanation is there for kindred spirits in this). Anyway, I finished it last week and it was a solid five-stars for me. Barbara said in the interview that her challenge was how to make the reader want to read about a subject matter so bleak, and she totally succeeds. Just wonderful.
So now I’m back to Lessons and hoping it will be one of those slow-burners and that I’ll be arriving in your inbox soon with a slice of humble pie in hand.5
Wishing you a happy Sunday,
Florence x
Ps. I’m not sure how this is only being fitted in as a Ps when really it’s main event material, but if you haven’t already come across it, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Reith Lecture on Radio 4 is one of the best things I’ve listened to this year. Her lecture focuses on freedom of speech, followed by a really interesting audience Q&A. I’ve found the increasing lack of tolerance for nuance, difference of opinion, or error in public discussion unsettling, so hearing Chimamanda talk about these things with such clarity was reassuring. She’s the most brilliant speaker and refreshingly forthright.
Pps. I’ve added some handmade original pieces to my shop this week - if you’re interested, you can find them here. (Nb. Royal Mail workers have a few strikes planned during December, so it would be best to order as soon as possible if you’d like something in time for Christmas). x
This may seem improbable, but no one complained of being woken and there was genuine surprise to find the room changed, so I really think it was quite noiseless.
Some people will try anything to get out of typing the words nasal hairs 🙈. If you must think of them at all, please conjure something delicate like the fine limbs of a weeping willow (sapling stage), rather than the dense bushiness of well-established Douglas firs. Then move along and cast the image from your mind entirely.
You might have thought it was my husband who’d set the thermostat at 18 degrees, but it was actually me.
I thought I’d used up my last audiobook credit for the year, but then Audible offered three extra ones at the discounted rate of £3.60 each, so I downloaded Ian and Barbara, and now have one credit left. Any suggestions for what I might use it on would be most welcome :)
A pie in the hand sounds quite sticky. Maybe I will arrive with it on a plate. I think humble pie never sounds as unpalatable as it should do. The word humble just makes me think of earthy, wholesome ingredients like oats, wholemeal flour, perhaps a bit of brown sugar. I’m thinking of a blackberry pie and how delicious that would be. Yes, let Ian McEwan’s book be brilliant and all the pies be humble, and that will only be a good thing.
Lovely meandering piece! (Intended as a compliment!). Another book - anything you haven’t already read by Elizabeth Strout xx
Having spent the last 27 years in rural France with just a log burner and gas cylinder fire for heating I was so looking forward to my first winter in UK with central heating! Oh bliss to wake up to a warm bathroom - and it is, even though the thermostat is set lower than I had anticipated. It is just what you get used to. Thanks for another interesting newsletter - hope we get to see the finished jacket. xx