Some years ago, one of my collegiate compadres made a D&D character who was a dragon and didn’t know it (dragons can and do assume many forms, including humanoid, in D&D). This struck a chord with me, because I am a dragon and do know it.

I cannot recall who precisely came up with the term “steam dragon” for the wet-headed girl-child I was, filling the tub with water almost as hot as the tap would give and soaking in it until my fingers were cratered and the rest of me lobster-red. However, I think it’s fairly accurate, if you assume a steam dragon to be a mythic beastie out of place in this clime. Every morning I shiver my way into the shower and almost climb up the bead-strings of water into the pipes in my eagerness to get warm. I wash, yes, but mostly I am showering to get a little core of heat inside that I can try to hold onto all day, until at last it dissipates and I shiver my way under 5 or 6 blankets. The last few days, I have actually put off showering so that I can go sit on a heating vent with a fleece blanket tucked around me to catch the delicious warmth.

The point is, I’m not from around here. I don’t know what my home dimension is like - maybe you get amnesia travelling betwixt dimensions - but I imagine it as a vast library full of magically waterproof books. The floor is entirely covered with cushions and blankets, except where the big bubbling bathtubs steam into the vasty reaches of ceiling. Heated towel racks disgorge huge fluffy towels, and every end-table has a fresh batch of hot cocoa. Did I not mention the end-tables? They go with the armchairs, you see, which have big overstuffed ottomans and oversized afghans. The world without is a snowy waste, to better accentuate the cosy joys within. You are so warm that your breath steams even in the comfort of the library, and you can follow its rising ribbons up into the ceiling vaults by unfurling your silvered wings.

Or else I’m just cold a lot.