Frozen Tundra

One of the privileges we have as Christeby's students is that we get to tour old aristocratic homes privately, some of which are not even open to the public. It's quite an honour really, however, today even the class Russians were complaining about the cold.

'Golden Retriever...can I lean into you?'

'Yea, go on. You can keep me warm too.'

In I leaned and we both let out a collective sigh of shared warmth. (And relaxed our tense shivering muscles.)

I'd dressed for a UK spring, so, not shorts or a mini skirt, but three layers should have sufficed, right?

No.

Our teeth chattered away while guest lecturers patiently educated the huddled masses that were knitting themselves closer and closer behind their backs.

Golden Retriever, Cocker Spaniel and I were one little clump almost linking arms while the Russians, ironically, whined and complained louder than any other group.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't Russia have some pretty harsh winters? I would have thought English springtime would have been a walk in the park.

Evidently not.

By the time the lecturers had done a pass off, we had one laughingly tell us to either never accept an invitation to dine with the aristocracy, or if we do, to be sure and wear cashmere knickers and our best fur coats.

What I want to know is how is it that they can afford all these Titians, Van Dycks, and Turners but no central heating. C'mon 73rd Duke or Marquis of Wherever! Sell something less valuable to keep the heat on.

No one likes a head cold...