Being wrong never felt to good… | Jack Marshall’s column

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Being wrong is something we’ve all experienced. Each and every one of us has lived through that momentary jolt, that skipped-beat brain-pause, when your body simply has to stall as you come to terms with being completely and utterly wrong. It’s a humbling ordeal, but it’s how one chooses to cope which is key: double down or learn and evolve.

In late November last year, I endured the whole-body buffer which comes with slowly realising you’re powerfully wrong, and it came after I was confidently and ignorantly dismissing the concept of hot water bottles. No one uses hot water bottles, I announced loudly. They’re from a bygone era, like doilies or affordable housing. Smug, I looked around.

Everyone else in the room was faintly dumbfounded. Of course hot water bottles are still a thing, loads of people use them - we all use them regularly, they said. Face frozen like a slack-jawed idiot mask, my brain stuttered, stalled, and spluttered. Wait, what. Hot water bottles are a thing? My portion of humble pie awaiting me, I set about winding my neck in.

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Which is a long-winded way of announcing that I am now a complete hot water bottle convert. As soon as the mercury dips, my trusty HWB is dusted off, a humble rubbery shield in the cold-snap battle against the criminal energy company wolves at my door, bloodthirsty in their heinous profiteering. God, I was wrong, so very very wrong.

The trusty hot water bottleThe trusty hot water bottle
The trusty hot water bottle

I’m typing this during the ripple of snow we had last week, a thick wave of blizzards and powdery snow-drifts which swept through just as the odd songbird’s call had lulled us into believing Spring was here. My HWB is perched on my lap, warm and fat as a housecat. At night, temperatures reportedly hit -6°C. I wouldn’t know.

Boiler turned right down, nary a drip of hot water flowing through my home’s veins, every radiator in the house shut off and chilly to the touch, I was nevertheless as lava-toasty as a Maccies apple pie thanks to my HWB. Every square foot of all the surfaces in each room is ice-cold, but the atmosphere under my duvet is positively tropical.

Being wrong never felt better.

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