-9°C. Feels like 17°C. And that's a step up from last week.

Breathing doesn't hurt. It just leaves a funny sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach. Air doesn't go down there. Where is that signal coming from? Hypothesis: the stomach is smarter than the brain, or at least has better survival instincts.

And fingers. Two pairs of gloves. Three pairs of gloves. Doesn't matter. Wind finds a way. And ten minutes into a run, the signal starts to break up, and the fingers don't want to bend, and eventually they are there only if you look at them. Just useless, stiff, painless sausages. But wait, there's more! In twenty more minutes you have a choice between (a) the pain of waking-up-fingers or (b) the anxiety of why-aren't-these-fingers-waking-up.

Trust me, you really need them to wake up. Try unlocking your front door while holding the key with two sausages. Possible, but not recommended.