Under the cover of this fog, we have been transported – the house, the dogs and I – to a place of misfortune. Grey malevolence has poured in and removed the other people and their colourful optimism. We are marooned. There are no shops or schools or jolly pubs. Where the road used to be, I can hear the growling of damp monsters. Cold means that everything feels wet, even when it isn’t: muffled, I can no longer tell the difference. My small fire is an orange warning flicker valiantly protective, but the log pile is already glinting with water and ice.