Ballet pumps do not, warm feet make, I’ve only recently learnt this. I made the executive decision to take my friends on the Thames clipper to Greenwich Village, we shuffle around the shops with red noses, trying to shield behind one another from the wind, our peepers peeled for the next Starbucks so we can dive in and defrost. Light styro-foam type snow tries to fall, and it does try its little hardest, but to no avail. This is our preview for what is about to hit! Monday morning greets London with a gloriously untouched white veil, so delicately coating everything. Even office buildings look slightly more picturesque.
I lay in bed weighing up the odds of being able to leave my hair for another day before grease takes over - I press my snooze button - I mentally go through my shoe collection comparing what could keep my feet warm, dry and prevent me from slipping - I press snooze again. My patent knee-highs have the grips on the bottom but are very thin material, my Uggs would work on the warmth side of things but they are suede, unprotected suede at that. Snow would certainly ruin them and they are new. Hmm, then there’s my wellies. Yes, wellington boots may work, I look like Paddington Bear in them, and feel I wouldn’t be doing them justice if I didn’t jump in every puddle and refuse to eat my greens, but they may well work. I press my snooze button a third time. Yes, my wellies with a black dress, cardi and leopard print pashmina… I finally get up.
It’s the worst snow London has seen in 18 years, I sit with my tea dreading the walk to work. Yes I walk. Therefore I can’t blame tube closures, bus cancellations or trains…I listen to all the commuters freezing in their make shift ski suits and over sized gloves whinging about waiting on a platform for two hours, and I’m jealous. My seven minute dawdle will probably take me 12 minutes today but I’ll still be in work on time. A day stretching ahead of me, forced to look at friends facebook pictures of their snowmen and snowball fights. I resolve there and then to partake in a go slow, snow day.
I eventually start my 12-minute hellish commute to work. There I am crawling along, eyes focused intently on the ground to avoid slippage, critically placing my foot each time when a woman over takes me in her heels. Heels! I'm practically Paddington and she’s managing to not only walk in stilettos but leave me in her snow dust! How is this possible? I just haven’t got what it takes, I lack the fashion finesse, the skill to teeter in sky scraper heels even in zero degree weather, the passion for leaner looking calves the… I look up and she’s wrapped round a lamppost clinging on for dear life. I smile smugly as I plod on past, one wellie in front of the other.
this pleases me
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