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.