No heating until November, said the whiteboard. When we finally cracked on 24 October, the flat didn't smell of burnt dust. It smelled like a hotel lobby, and my wife had been waiting a month for me to notice why.
The rule was on the fridge whiteboard, in her handwriting. No heating until November.
So we did October properly. Two hoodies each. A hot water bottle that got passed between rooms like a baton. A blanket on the sofa that was never once folded.
Back in September, I'd caught her crouched behind the living room radiator with a bag of cotton pads. I assumed it was a damp thing. I didn't ask.
On 24 October, we cracked. She saw her breath in the kitchen and turned the dial without a word.
I braced for that first-day smell. Burnt dust and regret.
It never came.
Twenty minutes later, the whole flat smelled warm and expensive. Like a hotel lobby you couldn't afford to stay in. The hallway. The kitchen. Even the bathroom.
I went from radiator to radiator, sniffing like a dog at an airport. Behind the living room one, I found a cotton pad.
She was leaning in the doorway with her tea.
'I did them all in September,' she said. 'I've been waiting a month for you to notice.'
I said thank you. She said it had been a very long month.
We've rubbed out November on the whiteboard.
Next year, the heating goes on in September.
Hide some behind your radiators.