‘We don’t have winters like we used to’ – Really?

“OH, we don’t have winters like we used to,” I’m forever sick of hearing.

No, we don’t have winters like we used to – winters in Toowoomba were never this cold!

Remember in 1984 when it snowed in Toowoomba, well, I reckon it’s just too cold to snow at the moment.

Yet, I can’t believe there are still plenty of people walking about CBD Toowoomba in shorts.

A mate of mine works in a Ruthven St hotel bottle shop, and he reckons the wind that gusts through the drive-through are so cold that during slower times he nips into the cold room to warm up.

When I complain of the cold, people often say to me, “Well, wear some winter clothes”.

Are you kidding?

I’ve got that many layers of clothing on I could help out at police dog training range – and there’s no way I’d feel any bites.

A friend of mine now based in Mackay complained that the winter there was “freezing my butt off”.

Really? I couldn’t help but point out that Toowoomba’s maximum that day didn’t reach Mackay’s minimum.

It would come as no surprise to those who know me that, as a bornand-bred North Queenslander, I can’t get used to the cold – even after being in the Toowoomba area for almost 50 years.

And, it would appear the winter gods know that because I have just had four weeks leave and had planned a northern thaw-out holiday as is my usual annual jaunt, but those plans went awry leaving me stranded in this arctic wasteland.

However, at least by being on holidays you’d think I could enjoy sleep-ins in the warmth of my bed and ordinarily I would have but for an ever-hungry second-hand cat which demands breakfast at 6am on the dot.

If I don’t rise from the warmth of my doona and provide his breakfast, he wails at the foot of my bed incessantly until I do.

Even if I try to outlast him and put a pillow over my head, he will jump onto the bed – and than me – until I cave.

This is no diminutive moggy, I might add, he’s more like a mid-sized panther and he hits the bed with the force of a Josh Papali’i front-on tackle.

He’s a second-hand cat with a first-class appetite and even his vet refers to him as The Beast.

It’s a scary thing to be sound asleep at 1am when crash tackled by a fat feline.

I wake suddenly thinking I’m back in my teenage rugby days and I’m at the bottom of the ruck – again – with a bunch of forwards raking their tags across my back, only to wake to find it's the cat’s claws.

However, I know even the fatinsulated second-hand cat is feeling the cold because more times than not he beats me to the bed – and therein lies the next challenge.

It’s one thing to drag back the covers from a spouse or partner, but try getting your way with a cranky, cold cat.

He obviously needs some body heat to warm up, so after he’s seen me fall asleep he’ll climb up and snuggle in, often on top of me.

I’m oblivious to this moggy manoeuvre until I wake gasping for breath fearing a heart attack so heavy is the pressure on my chest.

I can’t understand how he’s feeling the cold when his body temperature feels about two degrees above the daily Darwin maximum.

I was telling mates how things got “hot and heavy in bed last night”. “First date?” one replied.

“No, second-hand cat!”

You know, my younger colleagues are forever blaming my generation for destroying the environment and causing global warming.

Somehow, after struggling through recent temperatures, I reckon they’ll be thanking me for causing global warming and wishing it would only arrive sooner.

He’s a secondhand cat with a first-class appetite.