Cold

Cold, cold, cold.

And not a freezing cold, not that crisp, bitey, exhilarating cold that reminds you that the seasons roll ever onwards, that you are but a child of nature and exist only by the grace of the universe.

It's an implacable cold that gnags and gnaws its way into your soul and won't go away, no matter how many extra layers you add or how much warm liquid you pour down your gullet. It's the kind of cold to give new (or directly translated) meaning to sang-froid.

The only thing that truly helps is a hot, hot bath, preferably drawn with chopped ginger for added warmth. Or a latin lover.