Day 304: Coldfinger

Today I miscalculate on the clothes front.  Arrive at the station at stupid o'clock.  All the other earlies are wearing coats.  I am in shirt sleeves.  The minute I realise this, I feel considerably colder.  Train arrives.  I am in a carriage with a window-flinger - a man who makes ventilation his primary duty.  Not only establishing but also MAINTAINING extreme ventilation (woe betide any person getting on at West Hampstead, who fancies shutting a window, because that WON'T BE HAPPENING!  Not on his watch.)  Secondary duties include knee-presence and whistley nostrils.

It is seriously cold.  In tribute to the drop in temperature I have my first A/W12* case of dead finger (*topical nod to fashion week in my season speak). 

Coldfinger. 
He loves only cold
Only cold
He loves cold
He loves only cold
Only cold
He loves cold

(Q:  What does Coldfinger like?  A:  Repetition)