The thing about the Country is, that despite all its wonderful quirks and romanticism, sometimes you just wish you were plugged into the bloomin' mains. For example, I write this from my bed, dressed in thermals, mens brushed cotton pyjamas, socks and fingerless gloves. When I exhale, dragon-like, it occurs to me that there is really very little difference in the temperature out "there" versus in "here". Bathtime, the last bastion of sanity after an evening of horse pooh and hail, was somewhat demystified by 4 or 5 trips between kitchen and bathroom with saucepans and kettles, and was reduced to a spine tingling , teeth clenching splash with a bar of imperial leather. In lieu of imminent arrival of a handsome Italian vet for example, one must immediately employ all tools at ones diposal. After a hunt for electric heaters proved fruitless I immeditaely began to mull plan B which would involve hauling the patio heater and bbq in doors, fire them up and retire to my bed, lulled into a lovely sleep by the cheering smell of charred sausages and sweet and sour chicken kebabs. Casting an eye over the 16th century beams, I decide I will defer my indoor barbeque for another night and implement plan C with involves the previously detailed love goddess outfit with the happy addition of Banana McFly (not her real name) who is already snoring, belly thrown to the stars, and Collie Wobbles who is desperately trying to get me involved in tennis ball hide and seek.... very cosy, very delicious, highly recommended.