Jonny McCambridge: Trembling toes, a runny nose and the woolly hat – dealing with the big chill

The only time I can recall feeling the absence of cold in days is when I have been in a steaming bath, but as I cannot keep myself submerged in hot water permanently, I am having to deal with the big chill.

Getting to sleep is a tricky process for someone who is often tormented by insomnia. If I am comfortable and undisturbed, there is always the hope that I will slide smoothly towards rest, like an oyster down a hungry throat.

However, if I am uncomfortable or in any way disturbed, then I usually know that a sleepless night may be ahead.

Mercifully, tonight, I am exhausted, and once I have overcome the chill in my feet, I feel the sensation of sleep slowly creeping across me. I am becoming gloriously detached from the worries and anxieties of the coming week.

And then my phone emits a loud buzzing sound.

I am immediately awake, alert and alarmed. I check the message which has been sent, concerned that it may be an emergency within family or friends.

It reads: "Remember to wear warm socks tomorrow; it’s going to be a chilly one.”

I stare at the message for a few more seconds before collapsing back on my pillow for what I now fear will be a sleepless night.

I am always touched when people send me well-intentioned messages regarding my welfare, although on this occasion I share the sentiments of Scrooge that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end.

Several hours later and I am in my car, waiting for the windows to defrost on the bitterest of Monday mornings.

As the temperature of the vehicle’s engine slowly increases and collides with the freezing conditions, violent clouds of steam rise menacingly from the bonnet.

I move gingerly between the car and my house as the tarmac below my feet is white with frost and glistening under the glare of the streetlights.

The blades of grass on my front lawn are petrified, standing erect and coated with shining ice. The snow is coming down steadily and, despite my many layers of clothing, some flakes slither down the back of my neck, chilling me to the core.

An hour later and I am at Hillsborough Castle. Not inside where the radiators pump heat through the grand, old building, but outside the front gate waiting for politicians to emerge to speak to the waiting, shivering media.

I am wearing a t-shirt, a shirt, a jumper, a hat, a body warmer, a heavy coat, thick gloves, my warmest trousers, hiking boots and – mindful of the advice of my correspondent from the night before – two pairs of woollen socks.

And still I am cold.

When I arrived, I saw several people I know, media colleagues that I am on good terms with. I greet them but receive only muted responses.

I realise that they don’t recognise me under my woolly hat which is covering my red-raw ears and pulled down low to protect my features.

It is only when I temporarily remove the garment that I get a few hearty calls of "It’s Jonny!”

I am doing some crude mathematics. There are five political parties attending the castle, with an hour between each visit.

It is communicated to the waiting media pack that the Northern Ireland Secretary will likely speak to journalists at the conclusion of the day. This likely means at least six hours standing outside in the freezing temperatures.

There is an unpleasant sensation running from my stomach to my chest, although I am not sure if it is caused by the weather or despair.

I know that my points of vulnerability are (as already mentioned), my toes, my fingers, my ears and my nose.

This is where the heat pours out of my body like someone pulling the plug on a bath.

I have done my best to protect myself, but practical clothing does not always allay with practical working arrangements.

The gloves will do an admirable job and keeping my hands warm, but I have to remove them for most of the day.

I have camera equipment to erect and operate which requires dexterity of digits, I am on my mobile phone throughout, texting messages and updates to colleagues and making calls.

I have to keep copy moving and I cannot type on my laptop using gloves. At one point, as a politician speaks, I am holding my arm outstretched so that my recording device can capture the interview.

By the end, I have lost some feeling in those fingers and I have to use my other hand to operate my phone and camera until I recover.

There are long periods of waiting. In an effort to keep my feet warm during the lulls I never remain still.

I walk around in circles, or back or forward, retracing my steps.

I am aware that this may give the impression to some of my colleagues that I am slightly disturbed or unhinged, but appearance or reputation is sacrificed in an effort to keep the blood pumping into my long-suffering toes.

I can see my breath each time I exhale, and I constantly wipe my nose to stop a dripping ball of snot from forming.

The darkness comes early in January and the lights inside the castle are burning brightly by the time the day’s work has concluded.

My departure is delayed slightly because when I go to dismantle the camera equipment there is not quite the strength in my hands to master the task quickly. My black camera bag is white with frost and frozen close to solid, rendering it unusable for now.

The car has to be defrosted again.

When I eventually drive home, I listen to the weather forecast which says a storm is on the way.

Again, I shiver.