September has always been a battleground chez J and I, our annual wrestle with the moral quandry: when to turn the furnace on? A question which has come up a time or two before…

The battle is not between the two of us; we are in complete agreement that the longer we can put the fatal moment off, the better it will be. Better in what sense I’m not quite sure, but neither of us seems in any doubt.

It has become a morning ritual: the first one up proceeds—briskly!—through the frosty kitchen towards the thermostat to get the daily reading; the other pulls the covers up around their chin and calls out an estimate. “60 degrees?” was this morning’s guess; thrilled to learn that it was actually a toasty 61.

We light nightly fires in the living room’s brick fireplace and huddle near the flames like moths, clinging to our books and mugs of tea. I have this vision of the pair of us, desperate inside our bungalow, assaulted on all sides by unseen cosmic forces which seek to batter down the door; the Deep Cove version of The Omega Man; or Shaun of the Dead if you prefer.

We urge each other on: thicker socks; another layer of sweaters; two hot water bottles; the down duvet. Just a few more days until we can declare our victory and get another Autumn underway.