Fragment #7 - Whirling spirit

It is freezing to death, and it is still summer. The days are getting shorter, and as we are more North than France, it is now getting dark at 6pm. This country is getting me dull. My summer has been full of discoveries: pounds in the Heath, Musicals in the West End paid by my grand parents, the churches of London, and plays by Shakespeare at the Globe.
But now I don’t now what to do. I feel trapped in this so perfect house at number 15, between a too caring grand-mother, and a grand-father I can’t get to know. It seems to me he lives in his restaurant. I can’t really see him. I can’t understand him. As my father is unknown to me. I can’t get to know, to understand my roots. God, help me.
I keep stuck to my bed; I keep stuck to memories of my life in France. I feel as a ghost in my real home country. Even Alex is far away; I have to see him, but I don’t feel brave enough. My bed is my last refuge. Shrine of my thoughts, I keep freezing under the blankets. I am trying to sleep, rubbing my feet one against the other to keep warm. My chin is trembling. Please, let me not be frozen to death tomorrow morning. My body is getting numb; as my spirit whirls away. I am trying to get my life back to me.