Jack Sprat would eat no fat, his wife would eat no lean. It's a bit like that round our house. There are other differences, too. "Jack" likes the heating on full blast if even the merest hint of a tint of a chill is in the air. His "wife" can't bear being too hot, so has to negotiate terms that go something like this. "You can have half an hour's worth of central heating and watch your Liverpool struggle against Spurs in peace, in exchange for a massage, a peanut Moro and the bedroom window open all night." I never said the negotiations were fair.
I grew up in a cold house. Cold in the morning, queuing for the bathroom. Cold in the night, shivering under the duvet. We had central heating, but the radiators tended to leak, and, anyway, heating a house was pricey. So I got used to the cold, with the result that I now feel claustrophobic in spaces that are too warm. It was a happy day when my local karaoke emporium installed air conditioning.
Mainly to escape Fine Gael's shy and retiring Leo Varadkar - it is increasingly difficult to open a newspaper or turn on a TV or radio without being exposed to Mr V - we decamp north, to the home of my in-laws-in-waiting, a place where my influence is, sadly, not as pervasive as it is down south.
In Jack's childhood home, in Portadown, the central heating seems to be on constantly. This 24-hour domestic warming is as much of the fabric of the house as the carriage clock that chimes every half-hour.
Remember five years ago when someone said it would be a disaster if Northern Ireland became a cold house for Protestants? They were definitely talking about my in-laws-in-waiting. The house is like a furnace, and still they walk around wearing several layers, saying: "Is the heatin' on? It's freezing, so it is." One brother copes with the balmy temperatures by eating his own weight in Viennetta - which, incidentally, tastes just as good now as it did when you were seven.
Like loads of people in Northern Ireland, this brother works in the civil service. He is wasted there, but the job has its moments. He gets to find out about people who have changed their names by deed poll. There are two people on the books called Status Quo. Little discoveries such as this make it all worthwhile.
Sweltering in Portadown reminds me of a pitched battle I fought 15 years ago in a flat in London. I shared the flat with several Bosnian refugees, one of whom had just managed to flee Sarajevo. Branca liked the heat on. All the time. I was sympathetic to her plight, but we had no money for heating, so during the night I'd get out of bed to turn the heat off, then she'd race down to turn it back on, and so it continued. The row climaxed in the kitchen, with people swearing at each other in three languages. Cold-blooded Branca won. I moved out.
Jack's hands are freezing. Icy blocks. We go to his sister's house, where the central heating has broken. This is treated as if it were some kind of calamity, despite the fact that a fire is blazing in the sittingroom. Later, Jack diplomatically points out that I have a few more layers on me that provide extra insulation. Jack is sailing very close to a particularly draughty wind here, and he knows it. Wisely, and without prompting, he turns the heating down as we drive back to Dublin.
On the way home I reflect on these trips north and think about why I enjoy them so much despite the heat. It's the little things I love. The family's obsession with Winning Streak. Their penchant for frozen desserts. The way they pretend to like my new leopard-skin platform shoes when really they wouldn't be seen dead in them.
And I think about what it is I love about hanging out with Iris, my mother-in-law-in-waiting. I like the way she saves me the Portadown Timesto read and tells me what fruit and veg are best quality down the market. Or when my new wrap dress falls apart and she is on hand to sew it up, even if it involves sticking her hand up my dress.
Afterwards she stands at the stove, thinking I am staying for lunch, and when she realises I have to go soon and am actually after a bit of breakfast she whips up a serving of eggs, mushrooms, toast and bacon.
Then, when I get home, I find a card in my bag. "Happy birthday, with love from your mother-in-law. Still waiting." Warm and fuzzy feelings. And the heat isn't even on.