Stage Fright

Today, it's only 40 degrees outside, our heater is broken, and we are very very cold.

It would seem that the heater, when finally flipped on, did a sort of quick blast of dust and fire as if it had been waiting for decades for its opportunity to perform, then sort of lost all nerve, panicked, flipped out and blew a vital fuse or gasket or some other important gadget. Stage fright, I suppose. Understand, in Southern California, heaters have begun to think of themselves as mere showpieces, not really intended for hard labor, just a pretty piece of the illusion that winter ever happens here. Sigh. Nothing living this close to Hollywood goes unaffected.

Bentley has only left his covers once today to chatter his teeth at me.

Doesn't he look like a character right out of a Dickens story? 

 Please, sir, send coal and gloves to this address.

I'm off to crank up the oven and add a layer of socks.