We decided to take advantage of the sun peeking through the dense cloud cover to try and squeeze in one last bike ride before the snow falls. It went a little something like this:
"Yeah, my feet never get cold. I'll be fine with no socks. Not worried."
"I shall, however, wear many layers, and my super-warm wooly gloves. And a hat, that will be plenty! It's not even that cold."
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck it's freezing! And uphill?!"
"I'm pretty sure I have frostbite on my ankles. My toes feel like cement. That is on fire. Why didn't we rent a flat with a sauna? Who moves to Finland and doesn't get a sauna?" [copious whinging and kvetching]
Keen-eyed readers will note that I cycled about 10 yards before the burning red flesh of my ankles forced us into a local café where we had to eat pulla. Lots of pulla. It was that or lose toes, seriously. The cinny buns saved my life, I'm certain.
So that's the bikes put away for the season, then? Erm, yes. And me safely back in my lamby slippers.