Indigo Sigh writes: My olive oil has frozen.

It is not hard, not a block for slicing, but has turned instead into something resembling a government warning about fat. When I tilt the bottle it responds by slowly wheezing its way in lumps to the lowered end. It is as though the Mediterranean promise of sunlight and health as given up the ghost after the excess that is Christmas and expresses itself as the rest of us do, dull and slow to whatever we perceive to be the end.

All our sofas are wonky.

They are tilted at odd angles as though they are slowly creeping up on the fire and will soon launch a surprise attack. It gives my sitting room an unkempt look and I long to make it straight and attractive. But the fire does not extend its heat to the ends of the room so we must go to meet its warmth and huddle these huge chairs around the flames.

I can see my breath as I write this.

I know that people have managed for a long time without central heating and I am sure they were all marvellous and I could learn stacks from them all. But I like hot water. I like feeling my toes and not seeing my breath when I am in the kitchen and most of all I like our house to be as it should be.

I like the olive oil to be light and summer formed. I like its sunshine to roll around in the bottle as I pour it, not to have to persuade it to stagger just another inch so it can strain against the next of the bottle hoping for one lump to squeeze through.

I like the have an orderly sitting room with the large dark furniture placed like soldiers around the room, all proper and discrete in the comfort they offer. Instead these woods and leather creep, like thieves in the night, ever closer to the fire, pushing one another out of the way in the hope of an extra lick of warmth.

Things are not as they should be at Castle Black. This beautiful space is designed to make one relaxed, not to scuttle. This is a home and should be full of the qualities of home; safety, relaxation, sanctuary.  But DJ and I are betrayed by the reality of the moment.

Objects are not as they should be, rooms do not work as they were designed to and each room in no longer a refuge but rather they have become gauntlets thrust our way by the invasion of winter frost.

It is easy to rage at these rooms and these false states. It is easy to lose patience with these impure manifestations of what we think should be but it would be only briefly satisfying and then our rage would become entirely useless.

Instead we find our solutions. Not just planning for the end of the cold (today- a brand new heating system and this evening, me in a hot bath, full to the brim) but rather we put the tea pot on the hearth to keep it warm, we use homemade quilts to cover us, and we hold towels in front of the fire and dash them, ER style, to the one who has just washed.

And what has this to do with anything? Specifically, you. Why is any of this of the slightest interest to you – because it is all about you, of course.

I have a tendency to eat too much bread. It is soft, warming and is delightful with cheese. I fail to see what is not to love about bread. Until I look down and see my body not being as it ought to be. There are curves where I am certain there should be flats and bounces where I think firm belongs. This is not the design of my body, it is, like everything else in this arctic house, not as it should be.

I could feel rage, not just the regular kind either, outrage. I could hurl hatred and violence my way and within about ten minutes all the evidence of bread will be gone.

You want the real story?

Rage, self loathing, bitterness does as much to get this body fit as it does to return my olive oil back to liquid again. When anger pits itself at reality, rage fails. Rage calls for back up in self loathing and bitterness and all you get is the same reality with a side helping of rage, self loathing and bitterness.

To combat the propensity for too much bread I give myself love, and I warm myself through gently, from the outside.

Love in the form of good food, which is wholesome and nutritious. Food that I would give to someone I loved.  Warmth in the movement and the joy of the movement travels though my body and alters it slowly under my skin and instantly in my soul.

Love and warmth to bring me home;  love and warmth that is my home.

Anger and hatred has no power to transform. Not anything. Not ever.

Isn’t that obvious when you read it?

It is obvious about the olive oil, it is obvious about my war with bread.

When was the last time you forgot that rage or loathing does not alter what is?

I have a tendency to throw a perfectly expressed, gentle tantrum if I don’t get my own way. You may not spot it as it is quietly executed. I talk about my reasonable expectation, and add in either hurt feelings or a vague sense of dismay that I could have been let down so cruelly.  I have taught myself to see this behaviour as reasonable – it is not.

DJ is learning to spot these my attempt to control via dismay. Like any poor habit, it crept in when it was useful to express myself in almost silence and then the habit transformed to be malicious when it was no longer needed. It is self destruction perfectly camouflaged as survival.

What about you?

Do you have any habits that are destruction in camouflage? They will be difficult to see so you will have to stay very still and watch yourself.

And when you find them respond with love and warmth.

DJ responds with love now, to my unkind attempts at control. I know he questions himself, asking if he is indeed right to refuse me something or to delay what I want. And then, if he is right, he brings me love. He brings me love in understanding me, understanding my attempts to control him, me and us and firmly and kindly takes these illusions of control from me.  This is love.

He warms me from the outside, his thighs under me, his hand on my bottom he warms  me through. No silence for us, no distance just closeness in a hand to bottom manner.

Tops – will you not get mad with yourselves please? We know you screw up sometimes and we love you anyway. When you make a mistake treat yourself like you would treat us, with warmth and understanding.

For those like me – we want to be as good as we can be, to be the best versions of ourselves. It is part of our duty not to rage at ourselves, not to be judge and executioner. Be kind to yourself, take yourself to him (or her) and ask for help, ask for love and ask for warmth.

As for DJ, he repeats his love to me over and over until I am so thoroughly warmed that I forget all about the boiler not working.

I wonder if spanking would work on the olive oil.