KERRE MCIVOR
KERRE FINDS HERSELF NOT-SO-BRAVELY FACING THE LONDON WINTER
The only good thing about having to leave my little London family behind is that I’ll be leaving the weather behind too.
December in London is grey and grim. When I first arrived, in late November, the temperatures were manageable – similar to an autumn in New Zealand. But a couple of weeks later, I opened the front door to pop up to the shops and I stopped dead in my tracks. The wind cut through my jeans and my merino top and jersey, and let me know, in no uncertain terms, that winter had arrived and I was seriously underestimating its power.
I scuttled back indoors and 15 minutes later, re-emerged, with my thermal long johns on under my jeans, bundled up in a hat, scarf and gloves, and cocooned in my waterproof, padded jacket – the one I’d bought in February when a cold front from Russia hit the UK while I was visiting and brought with it hail and snow.
The Beast from East, as it was known in the UK newspapers, was a bit of a novelty for me. I’m an Aucklander and I don’t ski or snowboard, so I’m unaccustomed to snow. Anyone from Central Otago or Southland or those of you who love winter sports would have no problem at all acclimatising to a Northern Hemisphere winter. But I didn’t have anything in my suitcase that would protect me from an icy Siberian blast.
I simply don’t understand how to dress for the cold. Native Londoners do. They seem to have wardrobes full of chic belted jackets, striking hats and scarves and fabulous boots that not only make them look good, but more importantly keep them warm and dry.
I’ve been told that layering is the key and I understand that, given that you move from sub-zero temperatures to stifling hot trains to icy streets to toasty warm homes all in the space of one trip.
Being a woman of a certain age, I thought it was just me when I came home after a walk around the park and ended up sitting on the couch in just my bra and undies, having divested myself of multiple layers of clothing.
As I sat fanning myself, my daughter came downstairs having enjoyed a nap, wearing nothing but a flimsy cotton nightie. She laughed when she saw me and told me it wasn’t a hot flush, it was just hard to regulate the radiators.
She suggested we turn the thermostat down as she was stifling too.
Getting the babies ready for a bit of park time and fresh air was also a major faff, especially with Bart, who’s nearly two and has developed very strong opinions about people putting clothes on him and taking them off again. It was like a semi-professional wrestling match – getting him into thermal underwear, an outer layer, a waterproof over-layer, socks and gumboots, a snood (a scarf and hood combo), gloves and a hat.
It was worth it to get out and about in the park, stalking squirrels, splashing in muddy puddles and gathering leaves, but I could really only manage one outside activity a day.
It also gets dark early in England in December, so the day comes to an abrupt end at four o’clock, when it’s pitch-black outside. You have to seize any windows of opportunity for outdoor fun when you can.
Londoners manage brilliantly. They are acclimatised to the cold and get on with their day-to-day lives, suitably suited and booted. And some of them actually prefer their climate to the scorching temperatures elsewhere.
Given that my grandchildren are living in the UK for the foreseeable future, I’d better learn to love British winters. And build up a wardrobe – and an attitude – that will see me through.