It's that time of year again. All of us ladies will be breaking out the woolly tights and all the guys will still insist on frequenting Workington’s pubs wearing a V-neck T-shirt.

Jack Frost has blown his frosty breath over Cumbria so you’d better give yourself an extra 20 minutes in the morning to scrape the ice off your windscreen with a CD case.

The good news is that weekly lawnmowing fiascos will soon come to an end.

You all know how much I hate gardening, or any other activity that involves physical movement, so this time of year is a godsend.

It hit me on Monday morning just how much of a downturn the weather had taken.

I left the house at 8.55am to make sure I wasn’t late for my son starting school at 8.45am.

They don’t seem to mind too much if we’re late.

I just dangle the baby in front of them and say she needed changing. I’m sure I’ll be able to use this excuse to get a lie-in for a good couple of years.

Anyway, stepping outside my bare legs were suddenly thrust against the unforgiving, icy air.

My skin is what you would describe as transparent, so it looked as though I was waddling around on two uncooked chicken legs complete with dimples and a splashing of unsightly veins.

It actually hurt my pins on the journey into school.

You know when you feel so cold that your limbs radiate with pain and you convince yourself that a blood clot is brewing?

It was that bad, times 1,000, and I say that as a devout hypochondriac.

I returned home to discover that all of my tights had undergone a very passionate conversion to Christianity, they were so hole-y that I was expecting them to start handing out Jesus propaganda and sport very fetching backpacks.

Sadly this meant another trip outside and a risk of blinding the public with my neon, dimply shanks.

I headed straight to Asda, five pairs of thick, black tights for a few quid was always a better option than those expensive things that ladder as you’re in the middle of pulling them on.

The amount of money I’ve wasted on expensive tights only to end up looking like I’m smuggling two large bags of burst sausage meat is unbelievable.

In Asda I was serendipitously greeted by my socially awkward brother who loudly questioned whether they sold XXXXXL tights.

“At least they’ll cover those tattoos on your legs, triple T,” he shouted loudly.

Triple T is my brother’s nickname for me – ten tats for under a ton, because apparently my ink is so awful it looks like I’ve let a toddler go at me with markers.

True, I’m no Kat Von D, but I wouldn’t say my arty tributes to ‘Deaf Leopard’ and ‘ABDC’ are that embarrassing.

I purchased my tights in bulk – 20 pairs. Freezing, I changed into them in the restroom.

The warmth was a blessing until I realised I’d snagged them on a discarded trolley.

A child was visibly upset by the now exposed sausage meat and demon-esque spider tattoo.

The triple Ts are going to need something industrial strength to keep them under wraps this winter.

Maybe the only thing that can save them are my converted tights. We’ll see if they want to come in for a cuppa and discuss religion.