Suzanne Harrington: If Wim Hof were here I could warm myself up by killing him 

Some friends and I will go wild camping. We will sleep in the woods, then swim in the sea early next morning.

As Wim Hof becomes something of a household name, now that we are all hurling ourselves into freezing cold water, because there is nothing else to do to remind ourselves that we are still alive — nothing legal anyway — some (fool)hardy friends and I decide to take things further. We will go wild camping. We will sleep in the woods, then swim in the sea early next morning. Commune with nature, maybe hug a few trees as we are not allowed to hug anything else. We pretend we haven’t noticed it’s still only March outside.

The woods are remote and uninhabited by anything except owls, woodpeckers, bats, and tweety birds whose names I don’t know because I am not a twitcher. Although this could yet become another tragic middle-aged pursuit, given the lack of cinemas, theatres, pubs, restaurants, parties, bingo halls; we could all end up craning our necks skyward at trees, clutching binoculars while whispering earnestly about blue tits.

Which is what we all have when the sun goes down; the weather app lied, there is no cloud cover. Instead of being just chilly, the temperature drops to zero. Oh what a beautiful moon, we trill, teeth slightly chattering, as the owls twit-twoo above our heads. Millions of stars. We pitch our bell tents, make a fire, and cook outside, illuminated by a few candles in lanterns. Wim Hof would definitely approve.

It gets colder and colder. I am used to camping in the south of France in August. We take turns clutching the dog for warmth, before lighting the wood burner inside the tent, after a lengthy conversation about death by carbon monoxide poisoning versus death by freezing. We opt for the former, deciding it would be less traumatic.

Woodsmoke puffs out the chimney cut in the roof, and soon the tent is warm as a sweat lodge.

As the feeling returns to our extremities, we discard bulky outer layers. It’s very cosy.

Our eyelids droop. The friends retire to their insulated camper van. The owls are still at it as I shove more wood in the burner, and fall into the kind of sleep a tramp might enjoy after a bottle of meths.

At 3am I realise I am not going to die from carbon monoxide poisoning after all, but from hypothermia. The burner has gone out. Sunrise is years away. It’s pitch dark and I have no matches, no kindling. Where is Wim Hof when you need him? I try shoving the dog into my sleeping bag, but she is outraged and wriggles free. So I lie in my hat, scarf and coat inside two sleeping bags on top of three sheepskins and wait to die.

Isn’t it meant to be like drowning, where you just drift off? I’m too cold to drift anywhere. My fingers are too numb to text my loved ones goodbye like they do in plane crashes. If Wim Hof were here I could warm myself up by killing him.