Ten minutes before Major (my brother, not alter ego) and I left to board the long haul from Sydney to New York City, the conversation revolved solely around whether or not I ought to pack my Hunter boots. The verdict was no – it’s almost Spring in the Northern Hemisphere, said my father, and you’d only use them for half a day in New York and regret the weight on your luggage allowance from London onwards, said my father, and they’re ugly, said my brother.
And clearly, these unanimous declarations (and perhaps, my inability to read a weather forecast) were a recipe for disaster – the minute we landed in NY, the snow hit hard, and though some would say that this was extremely fortunate (in fact, I would say so), it took us two and a half hours to cab-crawl into Manhattan, two and a half seconds to realise that none of my shoes were suitable for falling into sneaky iced-over gutter puddles disguised as bitumen.
This aside, snow is exceptionally fun – particularly for the few magical hours after a fresh fall, when people are you to break hips and shoulders tripping all over it, and store-owners haven’t taken to scraping the stuff that maliciously refreezes as a thin sheet of morning-commuter disaster.
My insightful brother goes on to hypothesise, that given that “ridiculous feet things”, Fashion Week is going to be rather interesting.
Indeed, on the eve of Fashion Month, all I can think about are the hilarious photos of show-goers in suede stilettos, being carried over snow heaps by their drivers, that Bill Cunningham shot this time last year during Nemo. That, and perhaps, when a guy on the Subway uptown looked this outfit up and down, and said that I dressed like a boy, that it was a compliment – let’s see who’ll be looking up and down when they’re walking on thin ice and five lethal inches.
And there we have it: as much as I can be the world’s most impractical dresser, I guess cracking my head open on frozen concrete is where I draw the line.
Happy Fashion Week, snow bunnies!