Winter was cold, actually very cold for me. I spent the beginning of November in my un-heatable French house shivering in solitude and then was lucky enough to return to the Antarctic where the wind, snow and rain ensured some very numb fingers on the bins and camera buttons.
I then went back to France, to chill out before the onslaught of Christmas which I spent in my New Forest place nick-named ‘The Ice Station’ by my moaning mate James. My girlfriend tried ramping up the heating but still shuffled about wittering about ‘Dr Zhivago’, so to warm up we went to Sweden where it was minus twenty and very snowy. It wasn’t until February when I emerged in the Gambian sunshine that I took most of my layers off and felt less like that frozen Mammoth recently recovered from the Siberian permafrost. If I’d done Stalingrad and the retreat from Moscow I wouldn’t have been any less frost bitten.
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