There’s no heating in this flat.

And no insulation. It’s an old building from a time when I guess people didn’t think before constructing a building that the people inside might be freezing cold and somewhat damp.

What I’m trying to say is: I’m living in a medieval castle. It’s cold year round, which is all well and good for the summer months or when you’ve just gotten back from a really intense joust and have worked up a pretty good sweat, but is less good in the winter months (remember: your summers are now my winters) especially when you didn’t have any room when you were packing for your tapestries. I knew I was forgetting something.

So, when I’m sitting around and want to be warm, or more importantly, when I’m struggling to get to sleep but can’t seem to stop shivering, I turn to a newfound friend that I didn’t think existed outside of the 1950s:

The hot water bottle.

Apparently New Zealand slang for hot water bottle (yes, there is New Zealand slang for “hot water bottle”) is “hottie.” Given that a “hottie” is something you sleep with to keep warm at night, this phrase is rife with Three’s Company-esque comic confusion potential.

I sleep with this:

woman sleeps with hottie

woman sleeps with hottie

not this:

woman sleeps with hottie

woman sleeps with hottie

There is almost no way to keep the whole of your body warm. Besides desperately covering your body in every available clothing item.

Or, of course, walking up the digustingly giant hill that is Adams Terrace.

For the record, Adams Terrace is apparently a very exciting street to live on. As far as I can tell, this is because it’s happily situated half way between the university and downtown.

Again, it’s important to note that the university is further up the hill (up a near-vertical set of stairs), and the only way to get back to the flat from downtown is to climb a comically steep hill. Imagine this:

just teeming with yeti

just teeming with yeti

but with more yeti roaming around.

Anyway, I get the privilege of seeing a minimum of four hipsters walking by every day (always going down, never going up). I’ve fallen prey to the most exciting of all sports: staring at your neighbors from your window.

Yesterday, the neighbor across the street actually may have caught on. When I was having dinner, she aggressively closed all of her curtains.

Hipsters need their privacy.

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