When do we lose our ability to ignore dirt and discomfort?
As a child and a young person, weather was fascinating to me and I enjoyed being out in it, regardless of temperature, force, or destruction.
I have distinct memories of scampering around the woodlands of our farm in the "dead of winter", as they say. I don't recall being particularly bothered by the temperature, the wind, or the snow.
I've been mucking out with a friend today building a shelter for his egg laying birds. I thought I'd hate the muck, but I soon forgot about it, and the only thing that reminded me I was due elsewhere was a raving hunger. A bumped head, but still a fun three hours wading in mud.
