LaFlamme and I hit the town last night. Judging by my aching head this morning, the town must have hit me right back. It was a cold night and on the way to Flanagan's my fingers went numb.

"I've got green fingers," I said, waving them at LaFlamme.

"What about the palm I gave you?" she said.

"The crispy one?"

"Yes," she said. "The crispy one. You know crispiness is not a natural state for plants, don't you?"

"How was I meant to know it needed water?" I said in my defence, which admittedly was weak. "Anyway that's not what I meant. I can't feel my fingers."

"That's Raynaud," said LaFlamme.

"What's Raynaud?" I replied.

"Your fingers."

"My fingers are Raynaud? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Some guy called Raynaud invented cold fingers," she said. "If it wasn't for him, your fingers would be toasty now." She put my fingers between her palms and rubbed them vigorously. It was oddly maternal and oddly erotic at the same time. I made a mental note to get therapy as soon as possible.