frost point
One cannot say that it is unseasonably cold, because it is winter and it should, after all, be cold, but it is unusually cold, to the point that the streets have been, for the past two days, uncommonly empty, except for dogs and their owners and (on Saturday) postal carriers. Going out without gloves leaves one’s fingers first purpled then blanched, and one mumbles imprecations against the dog’s preciosity concerning the business that needs to be conducted. Surely there is no need to examine every fern on the block when the wind chill is −1° F.1
Despite the drafty windows, it is still warm inside, and one feels fortunate to enjoy that warmth, even if one uses it to nod by the fireplace over the same few pages of Wealth of Nations, rousing briefly to scan a line or two about bales of wool and protectionism before dozing off again, into sleep or distraction.
- Reason not the need. [↩]