It seems that every rag I pick up recently introduces its collection of capes (because we're superwomen, right, of course we need capes) and knee-high boots costing mere thousands of pounds by iterating that yes, winter is coming, and it's S.A.D. (hoho!), but hey! We get to wear tights and fluffy jumpers!
You're not convincing me, and I doubt you're even convincing yourselves. Winter is shit. It's long, dark, depressing, cold, and well expensive because it's got Christmas in it. Innit.
But tights! Twiddly dee! In shades of plum and forest green, charcoal, maroon and midnight blue. We just fucking love tights, don't we girls?
Admit it, you just like not having to shave your legs every day. Who prefers trying to pull up woolley, fingernail-snaggly, sausage encasement garments to the sensual feel of summer sun soothing bare flesh with its golden caresses?
O, but tights! Twiddly-dee! Doing a muthafuckin' high kick in my muthafuckin' Pretty Polly 70 deniers right now!
Soon, my daughters. Soon, it will be time to once more go forth into battle with the fearsome Rat King, the beast which emerges from the sucking wet portal in the kitchen once, perhaps twice weekly, several deities fused into one all-consuming being, dragging you this way and that as you flail, seeking desperately a tail-end while screaming for mercy (in attempt to reverse the dreaded spell, "CAN-U-KNOT"), and wailing at loved ones for nimble-fingered assistance.
O but tights! Twiddly-dee!