I can’t hold off any longer – it’s cold, it’s wet, it’s Ugg time. As the weather’s turned, I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a new pair – as I do every autumn. But I can’t bring myself to spend £190 (as they are now! making me feel old, like Polos now being 60p rather than the 10p of my youth) on a pair of boots that I will love, but not respect. Because, like any normal person, I will wear them in all weathers and conditions, not just on the few sunny-but-crisp days autumn can bring. My current, and original, pair are entering their fifth season, and my, have they been bashed around. One day in 200 years’ time, some meteorologist will dig them up from my grave, release them from my clenched bony fingers and be able to map the weather of this ancient age from the watermarks and snow-lines on them, like the dating rings inside a tree trunk. It’ll be like the Rosetta Stone, in sheepskin.
Oh, how I love the instant “aaaah” feeling when I put on my trusty Uggs. I’m the coldy-footest person I know – I have a hot water bottle all year round – and my toesies have been crying out for the annual enrobement in their fleecy shrine. Yet, up till now I have hesitated, as once they’re on, that’s it. There’s no turning back. As I slipped my feet into them this morning, it was goodbye. My feet and shins will now be embalmed for the next eight months. Coupled with that other mummy wardrobe staple, the skinny jean, my feet will be lucky to get any blood before next June. The skin on my lower legs will dessicate and get itchy – and, as anyone knows, it is impossible to scratch through denim.
But I don’t care – my feet are warm and I can brave the day.