14 Dinge von Action, die ich heimlich für den Winter kaufe (keines ist eine Heizung)

🔗 What you need to have in your house if there are no deliveries for a week—the quantities per person per day, the order in which to pack them, water, heat, and light, all laid out on 247 pages in my complete German Survival Codex: https://go.hotmart.com/F106025463I On the table in front of me are fourteen items, and not a single one of them is a heater. Together they cost less than thirty euros, bought at Action, two streets away. A tub of Vaseline. A bag of cotton balls. Cardboard. Craft felt from the children's section. If you were to look over my shoulder, you'd think I'd brought home the wrong things. And that's precisely the point: the things that keep a room habitable in winter aren't on the shelf with the heaters. They're in the cosmetics section, the craft section, and the recycling bin behind the house. I'm Werner Falk, a retired master locksmith, forty-six years in the trade, forty of them working on doors and safes. I'm not a doctor or a heating engineer, and I'm not claiming to be. What I've done for forty years is look for cracks—where something isn't airtight, where air leaks through, where an edge gives way before it gives way completely. A cold apartment is exactly that: a collection of cracks that no one looks for. You don't notice the problem on the thermometer; you notice it on the floor. The walls give way slowly, the air slowly gives way, but the floor is cold from the very first minute, and it stays cold. That's the spot no one measures—and it's the spot where three things from this list come into play. We'll take them in the order your body loses heat: first down into the floor, then through the cracks, then through your skin, and finally, what's left when everything else is already working. ``` Fourteen: the dish towels, and the three tasks terry cloth is built for; Thirteen: the craft felt, and the insole you feel in the first half hour; Twelve: the cardboard—and the thing no one does, even though it decides an entire night; Eleven: the aluminum foil, and the spot where it returns half your heat; Ten: the knee socks, and why the reason lies in the shin and not the foot; Nine: the wool scarf, and why cotton is wrong here; Eight: the neckerchiefs, and the breathing that costs you calories without you seeing it; Seven: the baby blankets, also for adults, and why three thin ones hold more than one thick one; Six: the freezer bags, and the technique from winter training; Five: the tape that makes a system out of fourteen things; Four: the tea lights—and the flowerpot oven, which I reject again; Three: the heating pads, and why their value lies in the hands; Two: the cotton balls; One: the Vaseline you Think of it as cosmetics. Two things I'm revealing because they contradict my own list. Cardboard is flammable—it's under your mattress, far away from any flame, and that's not a recommendation to be followed half-heartedly. And nothing here replaces a stove: if you have a wood-burning stove and wood, you don't need this list in the same emergency. The overarching rule: make the fires from items two and one OUTSIDE. On stone, at a distance from the house. Not in the living room, not in the garage, not even with the door open. Any combustion indoors produces carbon monoxide—colorless, odorless, and by the time you notice it, it's too late. The firelighter will give you hot water outside; the mug comes inside, but the fire doesn't. I'll also tell you what these fourteen items can't do: they won't make your house warm. They won't make water or boil water. That's a different list. My real advice is at the end and costs nothing: don't do everything at once, but rather take one trip this weekend, one bag, and pack the fourteen items. Then, on Sunday, do two things you won't have time for later—put the cardboard under the bed where it can stay, and prepare the cotton balls with Vaseline and pack them in the bag. And if you only take one thing away from the whole video, let it be the one about the floor. It's not the ceiling above you that determines how you wake up in the morning, but what's underneath you. Write me one word in the comments: Vaseline, cardboard, or knee-high socks. The one of the three that you realized you were missing at home while listening. Just the word—no address, no time, and no work hours. That's nobody's business but yours. Take care of your house for me. Werner Falk #CrisisPreparedness #PowerOutage #Blackout #Winter #Preparedness #SelfSufficiency #Germany