Minus 7 degrees, and I’m not even in Umeå.
A day to stay in the warm, writing. Until I can’t any longer, and out in the darkness of the village I find a hedgehog along a dark alley, snuffling in the leaves and pootleing about. Is it OK for it to be out in this cold? I think it’s too big to be at risk, and leave it a large bowl of cat food, hidden from the local cats underneath some shrubbery. I lay awake later, thinking about these small creatures, their hibernation, and surviving the winter. Thousands of years of hedgehog-human interaction, small spiky signals of the time to settle in with the fire and only go outside if you’re starving.