Well, I hope you're satisfied. I've got wet socks now. I notice that your feet are still nice and cosy and dry. This'll be the death of me, in all probability. D'you remember that poem Noel used to recite?
'Twere very plain for to behold
The lad had ta'en his death of cold:
He'd got his feet wet early on,
And from his feet the cold had gone
That'll be me, that will.
Shall we try the church instead?
We might as well.
...That's locked, too.
Well, bollocks to it, then.