This morning I had a dilemma. I was waiting for a bus, as I so often am, and it was late. It was, like, really late. It’s actually late a lot. I’ve been threatening to write strongly-worded letters for a couple of months now, but since I’m not 70 years old and since I still have a life (albeit one where I’m constantly running late for stuff because buses) I haven’t.
I was waiting for the bus.
We’re in that awkward time of year now where it’s sort of supposed to be summer, but it’s sort of definitely not that warm. If you happen to be standing in the sunshine in some kind of miraculous ditch that is sheltered from all breezes and also probably covered by the comfy London pollution blanket, then it could probably pass. Otherwise, I still think it’s questionable.
A couple of nights ago I spent a long time in the foyer of my office (for work reasons, nothing weird) and I noticed that most of the women leaving had bare legs. Since I am a massive sheep and I only ever do things when someone else has done them first I decided the time was right for me to do the same. #Summer.
So, the next day, I didn’t wear tights. Fortunately I still had a pair in my desk because whoever controls the air conditioning where I work wants everybody to die of hypothermia. I lasted about 4 hours, which I was proud of, like one of those people who jump into holes in the ice in the Arctic. But eventually it was time for me to wrap myself in a metaphorical foil blanket, and some actual, physical emergency desk tights, and calm the eff down with my ideas that it might already be summer.
So, if I hadn’t mentioned it, this morning I was waiting for the bus.
About 3 minutes into my wait I got chilly. It was cloudy, and breezy, but Carol Kirkwood had promised me I was going to be warm, and the bus was already past due, so I stuck it out.
About 5 minutes in, I regretted that.
About 7 minutes in, I started contemplating whether to duck behind a wheely bin and quickly pull on my emergency desk tights, which I happened to have with me after I wore them home yesterday (What? I only wore them for an afternoon. They probably didn’t need washing yet.). There was a policeman parked over the road, and for a split second I even thought maybe I could ask him if I could duck behind his car to ‘tight up’. After all, if they have to let pregnant women pee in their helmets, surely they have to help out silly girls who made bad outfit choices too.
The wait for the bus ended up being half an hour, and I spent most of it hopping from foot to foot (in an ‘I’m cold’ kind of way, not like I needed the loo or anything) telling myself ‘OK, I’ll duck behind a hedge and put my tights on now. Ok…. Now. No, now.’ I was paranoid the bus was going to turn up mid-tights-application, and so I never took the leap.
I think me talking about ‘taking the leap’ sounds like I’m trying to be quite profound, so at this juncture let’s not lose sight of the fact that I am literally talking about jumping behind a dustbin.
So, tights-amundo. We’ll try again in a fortnight.