Jacket: Zara kids // Jeans: Citizens of Humanity c/o Shopbop // Hat: H&M // Boots: Hunter c/o Sarenza // dog leash: Rubin’s own
WHAT? Oh, come on: you didn’t seriously think I’d prance around in stilettos in REAL snow, did you? I mean, not even I would be quite that stupid, although I’m willing to admit that it does SEEM like the kind of thing I’d do. In fact, just last year, I was contacted by a journalist from a national newspaper, who wanted to include me in a feature about women who love heels. I got really excited about this… until I realised the journalist in question was mentally adding the words “too much” to the end of that sentence. And the headline of the piece wasn’t even going to be “Women Who Love Heels”: it was going to be something more along the lines of “Crazy Woman is Crazy”. And I was going to be the crazy woman. Yes.
My suspicions about this were first aroused when the journalist asked me to send her some photos of me as a child, wearing stilettos. I mean, I didn’t even know they MADE stilettos for children, and even if they had, my younger self was far too busy being a showjumping detective and wearing a swimming cap in public to even think about such things. “Well, do you have any photos of yourself wearing high heels to, like, a sports day, say?” she asked. “Or while walking on a tightrope or something?” Now, as amused as I was by the suggestion that I would ever voluntarily take part in sports, I have to admit, I was a little annoyed that she obviously thought I was too stupid to see where this was going, and where it was going was a sad spread in a Sunday paper featuring yours truly wearing stilettos while milking a cow or something. Look, I used to be a journalist myself: it takes one to know one.
Naturally I declined to be involved at that point, because while I DO wear heels most of the time (certainly more than average, I’m guessing), and find them perfectly comfortable and practical for MOST of the things I get up to in life, I don’t insist on wearing them for everything
any more. And when it comes to walking the wolf in ankle-deep snow, I do what any self-respecting fashion blogger does: I reach for the Hunters. And also a gigantic, puffy gold jacket which I bought in Zara’s children’s department last year, in a rare moment of practicality which I still feel smug about now, because it cost 50% less than the identical adult jacket, which was the exact same size. And also because my intuition was correct for once, and we have indeed reached that low point of the winter where I cast aside fashion and JUST WANT TO BE WARM. Even if it DOES mean walking around wearing a sleeping bag.
“You look a bit bedraggled,” said Terry, the charmer, while he was taking these photos. What he neglected to tell me, however, was that I also looked like a big-footed hunchback*, and that’s why I don’t post photos of myself in wellies and sleeping bag-style jackets very often. I’ve already shown you the kind of thing I wear to walk the dog in autumn, though, so I thought I might as well show you the corresponding “dog walking in winter” outfit. I don’t really know WHY I thought that, if I’m honest. I mean, it’s not like I have tons of readers all lining up to say, “Let’s see what you wear to walk the dog in all the seasons, Amber!”, but then again, you didn’t ask for ANY of this, did you? Not the dresses, or the shoes, or all those polka dots. None of it. God, I feel sorry for you all, sometimes.
As you can see, Rubin is also wearing a coat in these photos, much to Terry’s disgust. I realise the sight of animals in clothes is kinda freaky to a lot of you, and I apologise for that, but rest assured, I didn’t put it on him because I thought it looked cute: I did it because the snow attaches to his fur like velcro, and then forms huge snowballs which can’t possibly be comfortable for him. He DOES look cute, though, there’s no getting away from it.
And not the least bit like a big-footed hunchback, either. Lucky him.
*It’s not my posture, honestly: I was wearing at least three other layers under that coat, one of which was almost equally chunky. I could hardly move my arms, seriously. If the cops had turned up and told us to put our hands up, I’d have ended up getting shot because I just couldn’t have done it. I know you’re thinking that’s OK because really, what are the odds of Terry and I being involved in a shoot-out while walking the dog? But then, what are the odds of Terry being accused of stalking me, either, huh? You just never know, is all I’m saying.