At times I wonder if I will ever feel warm again.
The last seven months have me in my standard uniform of black upon black and some more of it, like a huge vat of Molasses got poured over me, the way they used to pour oil from the turret over their enemies.
Macbeth hag’s tits cold. You would easily find my naked body on the moors – so white – so bereft of any rays, you could find me from space – the white blob down there, on the moors, in the mud. I am bus cold, the kind of cold one shares with other bloodless commuters in a hazy fog of humanity.
It’s May and two, perhaps three days of being duped into thinking summer’s here – jubilation station! Flaccid bodies shimmy into shorts, post-Christmas party food too tight T-shirts and I have spotted the odd fellow in slip slops. Fool. All of you, fools.
At this time of the year it never lasts, and as I write, the loyal turtle neck and black tights are emblazoned on the marble physique. I don’t trust Spring.
Have you ever seen anyone on the ‘Game of Thrones’ in a party frock prancing about the daisies? Going for a dip in the ocean? Winter is fake snow and impassable mountains, we get it, but for the rest of the year? What are they wearing? Capri pants? Loose linen shirts?
Let’s talk about Vera, or Marchella or any British programme and you show me the spring, summer and Autumn collection. Why did I not spot this before?
Now I have a winter wardrobe, with a small stash of ‘when the humidity hits London’ or Easy jet has a special to Greece’ tucked away. I am the scarf queen.