Saffricans just don't know how to dress for the cold. They'll be found loitering in cold corners wearing a sun dress, or will put on a t-shirt on the day it starts snowing. They just haven't the foggiest freaking clue on how to dress for cold temperatures.
Which is why I thought - after a huge snowfall last night - that wearing flats without socks would be fine. By the time I got off at Victoria station this morning, I was dangerously close to having hypothermia and losing my feet altogether.
So had to pop into one of those London Souvenir chops and buy me some Tube Map socks. South Kensington right in the middle of my foot - then go into the office looking like a complete tourist tool.
I like them. Just that nobody wants to walk next to me, except my mate who has a handlebar mustache like Lord Kitchener and wears purple skinny jeans. Bless him.
Nipped through to Oxford Circus yesterday arvy to check out the Christmas lights. It was mayhem. Nine thousand kajillion females in Top Shop, all vying for the same shit. Top Shop was an asylum for crazy people - although I did buy a belt to hold my pants up (another South African affliction - bad pants), and a few other things, without getting punched in the face by pre-Christmas hormonal she-noids.
Then after the apparel bunfight, I stepped outside and amongst the Chrismassy lights and crowds, gentle snowflakes were raining from the heavens. Everyone started hussling and looking completely stressed out and frenetic. I just opened my brolly and stood in the middle of the pavement, catching snowflakes with my mouth wide open. Heaven. For retards.
Was so excited to see the snow. Frenetically so.
Then the Brit and I bought some slightly quaffable wine and got pissed at home.