100 words and one number

Sitting at the kitchen table.
Sunlight as feeble as a new born lamb is struggling to penetrate winter grimy windows.
Steam from a cup of coffee intertwines promiscuously with exhaled breath.
Chilled fingers cradle the cup, absorbing and transmitting warmth, almost, but not quite reaching icy toes.
Toast. Yes, good idea.  Crackling golden surface, puddles of melted butter, blackened crumbs in the butter dish.  A tarry slick of Marmite.
Coffee, toast, radio 4; bliss, or at least it would be if I could stop myself Googling the symptoms of frostbite and hypothermia.
Doorbell, the central heating engineer has arrived.