God, it's so cold. I feel like I should sleep fully clothed tonight (I'll take my boots off - I still have standards). Even with my central heating whacked up to inferno level, it's still bone chilling here in my pocket handkerchief sized flat.

I roamed with no particular purpose in mind this afternoon from Notting Hill on to Richmond, and wandered home through Kensington, and along the most delightful street in London - the stretch of Holland Park Road that hosts Daunt's Bookshop, Maison Blanc, Cyrano's Brasserie, and Tootsies - shops and restaurants that I've idled away countless, enjoyable hours.

Each step was a step through air as dry and as a sharp as mentholated cough sweets. Every intake of breath lifting the roof of my head off.