Call me pathetic. Call me a wimp. I know that for millions of readers of this great newspaper, the following admission will seem utterly feeble – bursting as you all are with the can-do stiff-upper-lip British spirit of endurance that sent Scott to the Antarctic.
I accept that most of you would not dream of acknowledging the turn of the seasons with any more indoor protection than perhaps an extra sweater, or bed-socks, or – if really pushed – a hot-water bottle in bed, come January.
So it is with the scouring candour which is the hallmark of this column that I
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