Yesterday it rained from the moment I left the house to the moment I got to work: not heavily, but sustained. That much water can wet the dryest biscuit, and by the time I reached my destination all of me, including my gloves, was decidedly damp.
The only drying mechanisms we have in the other office are those rubbish electric space heaters; those and the microwave, which I’d have tried were it not for the plastic fittings on the gloves. I turned the thermostat up on a heater until it just went click—so a couple of degrees above early-morning ambient—and laid my gloves on the grille, not covering it but sat in the upward airstream. I came back to check them a couple of times and they were drying nicely.
Come the end of the day, and I went to reassemble the slightly fussy list of accoutrements that the long-distance cyclist requires. I got to the heater to find it off, and my gloves dry only on the outside. “Who turned the heater off?” I wondered out loud, and someone said “Me.”
“Why? My gloves were drying. It was only on a bit.”
“Well, it seemed a bit indulgent, to be honest, seeing as it’s so warm in here. And they felt dry to me.”
I suppose it was indulgent, but then circumstances had meant that I’d had to sit all day in the office that didn’t contain my change of clothes, and I wanted something to be dry by the end of the day: when I pulled my socks up a few hours previously they had proved clingingly cold and wet. It wasn’t as though I’d turned one up to full blast and then left it on over the weekend, as I’ve discovered more times than I can remember. Still, as I put on my now slightly smelly gloves, and geared myself up for my 10-mile ride home; and as the person who had turned the heater off got into their warm, dry fourbefour to make a journey half that length to their own; I reflected: in times of emergency, we must all make sacrifices, mustn’t we?