Just one of the many colourful descriptions an old boss of mine favoured in the winter months. It’s so cold a flasher was arrested for “describing” himself to women.

Yep, Bob wasn’t politically correct, but to a 16-year-old fresh out of school he was an enigma – sitting in his bank manager’s office, chain-smoking “to keep warm”, back in the days when smoking in the office was as normal as licking a stamp.

It’s so cold I could cut glass with my nipples.

I was thinking about old Bob this morning as I ventured outside to a sea of white; the socks and undies like frozen flags on the clothesline; the fish in the pond looking bewildered beneath a wafer of ice. No weather for goldfish.

So cold we had to kick a hole in the air just to get outside. That’s how Bob would have described it.

It’s hard to believe they’re having a heatwave in Europe. I watched the players sweating it out at Wimbledon last night then threw another log on the fire.

I do love winter. Short days and long nights. The sun sitting low on the horizon, filling the house with golden rays of light. Watching the steam rise from my socks in front of the fire. Days when the air is so cold you could chip a tooth on your soup. Mmm… soup. Another of winter’s bounties.

As a kid I loved walking to school on mornings so cold my shadow froze to the footpath. Skating in my school shoes on icy nature strips. Daring mates to take on the frozen monkey bars – sans gloves – or ride a school bag sled-like down a frozen slide.

In summer they would send us home if the mercury topped 38 degrees. In winter, when it dipped to single figures, they just sent us out into the asphalt tundra in our woollen shorts and skivvies. Packed into the shelter shed like POWs, we’d suck on half-frozen sandwiches then play British Bulldog till we steamed.

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table, is what Bobby would have said, from beneath his bulbous red nose that wasn’t a result of the cold. His nickname was Tiny. He was six-foot-five.

If Tiny was late for work he’d say it was so cold that his car wouldn’t start running, but his nose wouldn’t stop. Or that he’d been trying to put the bins out, but it was so cold they didn’t want to go.

It’s so cold today, I’m writing my column with my feet under the dog. That’s not one of Bob’s – I am actually using the pooch as a foot-warmer. It’s perfect.

And I hear it’s so cold in Canberra, even the politicians have stopped blowing hot air. I’ll believe that one when I see it.