how to hibernate like a professional

Our street. Orange.
 
The clocks have gone back an hour.

This place has been plunged into darkness.  4pm, it's pitch black and while I'm ecstatic to be back in my unAmerican routine (fruit, vegetables, consistent sleep, cheese ban, future thin thighs), it's fucking difficult not to reach for a pie.
It's the kind of darkness that makes you want to eat and cry basically.

But, hark, I shall not regress. I missed England so much when I was in America (it's really weird actually), that I will not break. I am still deciding to LOVE winter this year. With a little help from Waitrose.

On getting back, I was gagging for fresh food and funky tea. So grabbed the Brit and strolled on down to our local Waitrose (which is the better-looking cousin of Woollies), also the more expensive and extensive. Came back with bags of groceries and a smoking credit card.

While New York buys power bars and tinned Spam to fend off "Superstorm Sandy" (Game show host?), I buy this:

A fuckload of tea. And this isn't all of it. Amazeballs, beautiful tea.

A motherlode of bath products. Creams, gels, oils, crystals, bubbles. I consider bathing a hobby like some people consider knitting or gardening a hobby. I take it fucking seriously. 

Winter wedge boots. Boots that are long are very two years ago. It's only about ankle boots people, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Bickies. Tea can't be tea unless it's tea and a bicky. Our biscuit tin is filled with thousands of chocolate Hob Nobs.

 Candles. Managed to procure a few dozen; this picture merely serves as a sample size. Winter is cosier (and much nicer smelling - given all the windows are shut), with candles burning.

Chunky knits (and bling to stare at. Oh yeah. Come to momma. When I'm sad, I look at my diamonds. Yes I do.)

Fresh homemade bread. The Brit got a breadmaker for his birthday. I scoffed silently, wondering when he would put it to use. Well, blow me down, look at his fresh produce already.  He whipped us up a loaf this weekend, fresher than a squirrel's shit. To go with our chunky soups and stews.

 Boots. Outside. Next to the leaves. That engulf our pavement.

Jelly Belly beans. Typically known for being as addictive as crack (especially the popcorn flavoured ones), but also only have 4 calories a bean. Given I had around 200 beans last night...I'm pretty fucked, aren't I?