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Tuesday, June 28, 2016

It's a Myth Sex Keeps You Warm, Jon Snow!

Jon Snow looking very pissed off.

"It’s a myth that sex keeps you warm, you know nothing, Jon Snow."

That's what I said to Scotto this morning.

Since moving to the mountain the cat has doubled in size. I think the cold weather agrees with her. Even though we’ve been accidentally feeding her twice as much as normal she still seems insatiably hungry.

Murdered in the Battle of the Bastards

Three of the dogs have gained kilos of extra weight… as have Scotto and I. I tried to use the excuse that I was just fluffy because my winter coat had come in but you can’t lie to yourself forever.

My daughter, Lulu, is coming to visit next week and I’m sure she’ll notice our double chins and pudgy cheeks. She won’t notice the fat anywhere else because it’s swaddled in tracksuits, large coats, Ugg boots and beanies.

As Jon Snow said on the telly last night, winter is bluddy here.

I’ve been putting a hot water bottle in the dogs’ bed before I call them in at night.

Willy the Silky Terrier goes straight out into the yard and sunbathes for hours in the morning.

I’m sleeping with undesirably pilled, matted with dirt encrusted soles, bed socks on.

What I wonder is how anyone procreates in this sort of weather. I know people joke about having a nooky to keep themselves warm but how does one have a nooky without taking one’s snugly tracksuit bottom off?

Even when Scotto gets up to go to the loo in the middle of the night, I swear viciously at him under my breath for allowing freezing air to get under the covers. How people could think about rubbing their shrivelled, frigid feet together (let alone other bodily parts) is beyond me.

How did Iceland ever become populated?

I suppose if there was a fire and a bearskin rug and maybe some Vicks Vaporub involved…

Mum and Dad have a fire place. We turn up on Sunday afternoons like a pair of Dickensian urchins rubbing our fingerless mittens together and staring in at the window at the hot scones and jam and cream Dad bakes.

Sometimes they let us in for a crumb or two. Sometimes they just pretend to be bumbling, old, deaf folk and ignore the doorbell. Bastards.

I always thought cold weather would entice me to dress up in romantic flowing scarves and knee-length, sensual leather jackets but instead it’s turned me into a dirty old bat who’s too shivery to wash her greasy hair and get out of her three day old tracky dacks.

If I shaved the hair on my legs I could collect the remnants and create a convincing toupee for Donald Trump they’re so long. He’d be a brunette but that might be an improvement anyway. You can’t trust blonde politicians.

Anyway, back to the bonking thing. Does anyone have any tips about cold weather and sexual relations? Are there special under garments with strategically placed holes and flaps us Northern Queenslanders don’t know about? 

Can you purchase onesies with poop holes while we’re at it? 

If so where do I buy them? Breast and Less? David Mones? Blowes? KTart?
Otherwise, I’m sorry to say the Poinker family tree stops here. It’s a no nooky zone until winter is gone.