Sydneysiders take note: If you were lucky enough to be outside today, or have a window seat to the weather, I hope you took a damn good look.

It was glorious.

Sitting in the park at lunchtime, I absorbed the precious warmth like a sunshine sponge. I felt blessed by whichever god is in charge of distributing Vitamin D.

But, we’re told, that the next couple of days will hold a maximum of 13C each – and that’s not even counting the inevitable city wind-chill. This displeases me greatly.

There are few things I find more distracting and soul-destroying than the cold. The wind howls, the rain pelts down, and the sun gets incapacitated by cumulonimbus mushroom clouds that herald the apocalypse. And no matter how many layers I wear – and drag around with me – it makes no difference. I want to die.

No wonder Russian literature is so miserable. I’d be Emo too if it were -30C.

Here’s a secret I’ll share between you, me, and the half-dozen webspiders that may trawl over this humble page.

I resent it when people say “I love winter” or “I enjoy the cold”.

I resent it quietly, and only fleetingly, but I do resent it for a moment. My resentment arises out of fear, truth be told. If these people actually enjoy the constant drudgery of lint-balling scarves and inside-out umbrellas, of office sniffles on high-rotation and unyielding darkness at 5pm, who knows what other sadistic pleasures they might promote? Kicking puppies? Steel-wool woven beanies for infants? McLeod’s Daughters?

From the “we have no idea” Sydney version to the “freeze-to-death-in-a-blackout” Montreal equivalent, cold weather is an unholy horror.

So if you like it, I don’t wanna know.

And I especially don’t want to know if you think, “We get a rough deal in Sydney – only four weeks of real cold!”

Sure and WWII was only six years, pregnancy is only nine months, and Men in Black 2 was only 88 minutes.

Now, which god do I have to bribe to keep away the cold fronts?