January….that dark void of London winter. I’ve taken to the usual hibernation habits — social withdraw, sleeping in to the last possible second on workdays, 14 cups of tea daily, marathon reading sessions of Tudor era mysteries in my pj’s. I know it’s unhealthy, all these carbs and lounging, letting my brain rust. So I let Sal talk me into adventuring to Canary Warf for the London Ice Sculpting Festival, to get the blood stirring again.
Five minutes out of the tube station and we’re nearly blown over by wind from the river. Teeth chattering, we lean in, weaving through the crowds and snapping photos of some amazing ice sculptures.
Ten minutes in and I literally cannot feel my toes. Sal’s forgotten his gloves. Maybe we will freeze here, at the Ice Festival.
I look down at my Converse. They are about a million years old and the tread is nearly gone. What was I thinking? I chide myself, miffed at my inappropriate footwear. I live here! I know better!!
I look up to see a woman in a knee-length dress, high heels digging into the soggy mess of grass as she passes. Nonchalantly, casually.
I look around- some people aren’t even wearing scarves, some with light jackets, chattering away happily, pointing at the ice art. Totally oblivious to the bone-chilling cold, the breath-stealing wind. Having a great time.