So, as some of you may recall, last March I had a pretty big, pretty bad seizure, the cause of which was never identified with any certainty. I am pleased to say I've not had another in the ensuing (nearly) five months.
So, you may well ask, what does this have to do with my hanging out in the bathroom?
Well, all on her own, absent any medical confirmation, she came to the conclusion that maybe part of the problem was that I had lain too long mere inches from the radiator and fried myself somehow. (Yeah, I know, I don't think so either.)
But she decided from that night forward, the radiators are things of the past. My comfy little hammock was removed and that was that. She decided she would just wear extra sweaters and stuff, and I, after all, had my furs.
That was fine--for *her* as she has lots of warm clothing (and, I would delicately point out, a layer or six of body fat). I, however, am quite small and slender under my glorious furs, and had to somehow make do.
Well, this is where the bathroom comes in. In the very spot I am lying upon, the floor is extra cozy warm, as the building's boiler room is directly below, keeping that little section of floor toasty warm, but not not nearly so fiery hot as the radiators.
And to be fair, she does supply many blankets. But still.
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