ONE of the few advantages I find in being on the portly side is that I tend not to feel the cold as much as the less well-fleshed folk of my acquaintance.

During my stint as a stablehand at the Redeswater Rest Home for Incontinent and Tetchy Horses, I tended to work mostly in jeans and t-shirt, and my flying graip soon had me glowing like a chestnut roasting on an open fire, if not sweating like a bull.

I did wear gloves, but only to keep my delicate office hands from blistering, and to keep them safe from the all-pervading horsey odour which is totally resistant to everything from Wright’s Coal Tar Soap, Vim and Swarfega to dousing in expensive aftershave.

The aftershave, an unused Christmas gift from many moons ago, was even more difficult to get rid of than the Eau de Cheval, and the combination of the two would stop people in their tracks many paces away.

I still get the odd disconcerting whiff from the car steering wheel many months after last using it.

The greyhound-thin types with whom I worked would goggle at my generous corpulence when I stripped off to the waist to shake vast quantities of hayseeds and other detritus out of my belly button and other folds of flesh.

“You must be frozen stiff like that,” said their boss. “You should be wearing lots of layers to stay warm, like me.”

He was clad in long johns, thermal vest, several shirts, even more jumpers and a coat, not to mention jeans and leggings, and a woolly hat pulled over his ears, and still looked chilled to the marrow.

But I was genuinely untouched by the cold, my subcutaneous layers of lard keeping me well insulated from the icy blasts of the Borderlands.

Sometimes I think my indifference to the elements works too well, because the other morning, I was caught in a sudden rain squall of tropical intensity whilst walking the dog.

The wind howled, the ice-laden rain came in horizontally to ricochet off my face, and my glasses were steamed up and useless.

So when I returned home from the blast, I was delighted to make out through a misty lens a concerned-looking Mrs Hextol, standing on the conservatory step with a large fluffy towel draped over her arm.

“How thoughtful,” I thought to myself, but I should have known better.

As soon as the door opened, the towel was unfurled – not over me, but to engulf the dripping dog. I just stood there, mouth open like the glistening fish I so resembled, and was told to take off my wellies outside in the rain, as she had just mopped the floor.

She reasoned: “If I don’t dry the dog off, she will shake herself over the furniture and soak it in muddy water – you are quite capable of drying yourself without my assistance!”

She was right, as ever, and I was soon dried off, on the outside of a ridiculously early rum and Vimto, the sovereign cure for every known ailment and others yet to be thought of.

Yet my resistance to the cold was severely put to the test on Sunday, when I paid my annual pilgrimage to a tiny church high on a hill for its annual carol service. The mercury had registered -12C shortly before the service, and the temperature outside the church had never risen much above zero for several days.

Even getting there was something like tackling the Cresta Run on a tea tray and it was with some relief that we pulled up outside the church some 10 minutes before the service was due to start.

But the temperature inside the lichened old building was many degrees colder than it was outside, with the congregation all wrapped up in thick coats, woolly scarves and thermal gloves. There was quite a mist gathering as the breath of the worshippers condensed, and I felt sure that the words of some of the carols were delayed slightly, as they had to defrost before they could hit the eardrums.

The carols were accompanied by the subtle stamping of feet and chattering of teeth – yet despite it all, the carols, the readings and the singing were as magical as ever.

Even to a cynical old scribe like me, the Christmas message never fails to uplift and inspire – especially when followed by a few glasses of steaming mulled wine and some tasty mince pies!

Merry Christmas everyone.