Things In My Head

Winter in 1970’s Britain was grim, not just because of the endless strikes, heartless politicians, cheesy glam bands and creepy disc jockeys but because…it was cold. It seemed to snow more too. Lots of slippery fall on your bum kind of ice. My dad putting socks over his shoes to get to work in one piece kind of ice. Long, dark, harsh, unforgiving winters. Winters of discontent. A decade of discontent. That’s how I remember it. Cold winters didn’t stop in the 70’s. They iced up the early 80’s too.

Around this time, in the early 80’s, I lost count of the number of times we were sent home from school due to burst pipes and malfunctioning boilers. School would shut because of the cold, that’s how cold it was. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen often enough. I’m not sure it was worth the early stages of frostbite. I walked home from freshly closed schools with feet like blocks of ice. Even when I sat with my feet right up against the gas fire, trying to thaw them, it would take at least half an hour before I could feel them again. The numbness was scary. It’s a nasty, queasy feeling when your feet are divorced from your legs. It’s difficult to take your shoes off when you can’t feel your feet. They are heavy and phantom at the same time. Once the shoes were off, it got a little easier. It took another half hour before I could feel my feet. Surprised I didn’t lose a few toes, or a foot or two.

Not quite so scary or dangerous as frost bitten feet, but just as Dickensian, were the nights. We didn’t have central heating. The only heat was in the form of a gas fire in the living room. It was so cold in my bedroom at night, that I used to wear six layers of clothing in bed. Here is what I used to wear on a nightly basis when I was a teenager :

1st Layer -Nightdress

2nd Layer -Dressing gown

3rd Layer- Thin short cardigan

4th Layer -Slightly thicker short cardigan

5th Layer -Slightly thicker cardigan than the last one

6th Layer -Thick, chunky, long Starsky and Hutch style cardigan, with woolen belt.

The bed had about eight or nine blankets on it. There were no duvets in those days, well, not in our house.It was cold but it was a veritable tundra in the nether regions of the bed. My feet could not even dare to plumb the freezing depths, not even three quarters down. It would be like plunging your feet into a cottony fridge. I would say halfway down was the cut off point. I would curl into a foetal position. The feet had to stay high. Difficult when you’re five foot eleven and you have to stay in that position for the whole night.

Maybe sometimes, as the night progressed, the feet would be able to go a little further down. Although it was a slow gradual process, little by little, over time, I could warm up layers of cold further down in the bed. By morning, the conditions down there would be temperate at least, but of course, by then it would be too late. Time to get up.

Some part of me hankers for that, well, maybe not that, but elements of the past simply because I was young and my whole life was in front of me. It’s the past and I’ll never have it again. The past when all said and done can seem safer than the future, no matter how depressing or miserable it seemed. Why would I want that again? I don’t. It’s just that nostalgia can seem fuzzy and warm, despite the cold.

It sounds like I have a cold feet problem but if I did then, I certainly don’t now. Thanks to central heating, hot flashes and thermal lambswool socks, I now have toasty warm feet all day and all night long! Hurrah! A happy ending!