It seems always to be cold here in Cancerland, in that dank Irish way.
I think of Dingle in December, late at night, with the Atlantic mounting a monochrome fireworks display every few minutes, crashing madly against the seawall and filling the darkness with crystal shards.
Like a crofter, I have taken to wearing a scarf knotted around my neck indoors and out, and pretty often gloves too, indoors and out.
On the other hand, this temperature anomaly seems only to afflict those who’ve been abducted to the Republic of Cancer. Volunteers (doctors, practitioners, nurses, those who run the machines and the concession stands) often report being warm. Whew, it’s hot in here today, they say. So you frequently have the odd scene of a volunteer and a conscript in the same cubicle, the volunteer in short sleeves mopping his or her brow, the conscript in muffler, cardigan, and knit cap, bending low over a mug of hot tea for the sake of the warmth it throws off.
Even outdoors, in the sunshine, my hands tend to be cold as clay.
What’s that amazing line of Emily Dickinson’s?
Zero at the bone.
That’s the forecast most days in Cancerland, at least for those transported and held here against their will, as opposed to those who come and go freely.