The Matron thinks there has been a misunderstanding. You know, this January weather before Thanksgiving? Ice-packed roads, single-digit temperatures, biting wind, feet of blowing snow. Ring a celestial bell? It occurs to me that You - in all Your wisdom, of course, but being also VERY busy running the world -- may have mistaken the Matron for a trooper. And thus sent January in November?
God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe: it is official. The Matron is not a trooper. She is not rising to the challenge of ice and chill. She is not gamely moving forward.She is not embracing winter's edge, with my wool cap pulled tight and attitude, chipper. Nope. The Matron would be the woman wrapped in numerous layers of clothing with a space heater by her side, shaking her fist at the sky (not at You, of course. The sky) and saying: "Too soon! Too soon!"
She hopes this clears up any misunderstanding and sheds light on her actual position here in the world -- not a trooper. Cold. A wee bit bitter, actually.
Thank You for rectifying this situation. She looks foward to the thrill of throwing open the shades tomorrow morning and seeing November's 40 degree return.