11 Contributed

Winter fashion in Lismore can leave you feeling very cold

WITH the cold of winter comes a natural introspection. A drawing in. This is a time to hunker down, keep cosy.

It's a gorgeous time of year. Sunny days, cool nights. In Wellington, New Zealand, where I grew up, where the winters are icy, cold and long, an offshoot of the roaring forties trade winds whizzes up from the Antarctic and races through Cook Strait, chilling everything in its path. Wellington cops the full frontal blast of it. Believe you me, I know cold.

I am always amused about the range of responses to the winter cold in Lismore. You can tell its winter here because suddenly beanies and Ugh boots are being worn.

I, for one, rug up. I wear winter clothes, which to me means woolly jumpers, boots, tights, scarves, coats and other warm outfits.

Call me crazy, but I even put on extra blankets and use a heater at night. To me, this is a reasonable, nay sensible, response to the cold weather.

And yet on the way to work I see people in Lismore trundling along in shorts, T-shirts and sandals. They might even have gone all out and added a flannelette shirt, which flaps wildly in the icy wind!

Some wacky daredevils may have put on a beanie, still wearing shorts and t-shirts of course. Note, however, that this fashion item almost doesn't count as a head warmer as I have seen it worn on the hottest of days. The poor old beanie's function has been lost, buried under a pile of misplaced hipster grooviness.

I have gone to parties where people huddle around inadequate outdoor heaters and roaring fires pretending to have a good time. In cases like this the only solution is to drink all the mulled wine in order to light the internal fire.

Groups stand next to bonfires, roasting their fronts, freezing their backs. This is the life they say, swigging back all the available alcohol, their voices getting louder and louder.

This morning at the shops I wondered if I was even in the same season. I was wearing my coat and scarf while at least two people walked nonchalantly past, all devil-may-care in their shorts and sandals.

A young girl in the shop apparently just couldn't give up her teeny-tiny shorts. Her thighs were goose pimpled with cold. She had, however, acknowledged the season with the wearing of Ugg boots, so I mentally congratulated her for that.

In front of her, someone with bare feet. I despair.

My children have told me the inscription on my gravestone will be my name and the words: "Have you eaten? Are you warm enough?”

This is a great time of year to be really cosy. I love it.

But would it kill you to put something warm on?

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