In a room there sits a woman. The room is spacious and were there more light in Ireland than there is, it would be quite bright. Inside the room it is warm, not to say it is boiling hot. The books are sweating, the papers piled up high on the woman’s desk seem to breath heavily and even the paper clips seem to melt away in a minute. The pencils look horrified and whisper something of: complaint at the High Court for Pencil Rights otherwise we will die of heat. When the woman looks at them, they fall silent and pretend that there is nothing wrong at all. The woman at her desk however does not sweat. The woman shivers. She is ice-cold. The grey- rosa scarf doesn’t seem to help. The woman shivers stronger. There is a big cup standing next to woman filled with boiling hot peppermint tea. But the woman can not stop her teeth from rattling. But the woman keeps on shivering. If you would look under her desk, you could see that the woman wears thick dark green woolen tights over her thick woolen dress. Looking even closer you could see that the woman wears thick grey woolen socks within her Timberland boots. ( of course it is not too nice to look under a woman’s desk to inspect the state of her legs and feet.) But not even the socks stop the woman from shivering. She feels as if she would hold her feet into a pond of ice-water. The woman at her desk is freezing as if she never would feel warm in her life again. For five minutes or so, the woman closed her eyes. She imagined many, many sheep climbing up the stairs and walking into her office, surrounding her and keeping her covered in a sea of warm and thick wool, where she could forget the cold and float away warm and comfortable and sheltered in the midst of the sheep.But the the telephone rings and the cold, which never left is back.