The freezing cold weather has set in and once again has revealed those among us who are descended from true Viking stock.
I’m afraid I am not one of them.
A trip to the boozer in any South Yorkshire Town will confirm it is de-rigour for couples and singles to venture forth wearing summer attire.
Eschewing winter wear is a tradition in these parts.
In town centres it is commonplace to see women wearing nought but a flimsy negligee, while their potential suitors don sandals, jeans and a Fred Perry shirt as the tempest roars around them in full force.
Real men don’t wear coats even when it’s minus 10.
It has ever been so in my experience, but I have never understood why exposing your nether regions to sub zero temperatures has been considered a measure of your hardiness as opposed to your stupidity.
At Wombwell High School in 1979 walking around in a snorkel parka had the inevitable result of the school hard man grasping you by the head and hurling you down the banking into a six foot snow drift.
The elongated hood rather than offering protection from the elements merely narrowed your field of view and gave your assailant enough purchase to fling you in a wider arc.
Teachers would insist you risked life and limb scuffing your knees on a frozen pitch. The cold was there to be embraced and it was character building.
As I grew older, my predilection for wearing warm jackets and scarves was scorned by pals who would rather brave the goose bumps and risk early onset rheumatics than appear to be nesh.
So apart from the advice given freely and wisely by our parents we shivered away in bus shelters and outside chip shops.
But even for me there was a cut off point. Thermal long johns and pyjamas were a definitely beyond the pale.
That bloke with the moustache wore them in Laurel and Hardy films.
And wearing a fleece was the preserve of train spotters and the middle aged men and women who worked on the card stall on the market.
But as the years have advanced I have embraced all these proscribed items one by one.
When you reach middle age the bones become increasingly creaky and sitting in a draught for half an hour results in them seizing up for a week.
So in contravention of the received wisdom which continues to inform the current fashion sense in South Yorkshire, I have gradually re-evaluated items which were once no-go areas for my younger self.
This week I eventually confronted the final taboo and took the final leap into my comfort zone.
I have bought myself an electric blanket.
These days I’d rather be a warm ‘un than a cold ‘un. But I draw the line at a Onesie.