The Winter Coat

Winter is definitely upon us. The days are noticeably shorter, with stick figure shadows like children’s drawings attached to our feet by lunchtime. The trees shrugged off their leaves over the course of a couple of days last week, leaving a treacherous, slippery sludge on footpaths after it rained on Friday. Until the rain it looked pretty, tempting me into turning into a six year old again and kicking my way through the drifts for the joy of the sound and colour. I didn’t, but only because, in the grown up land I inhabit, I was perpetually rushing around, always late for whatever my next appointment was.

I had to dig out my longer winter coat today as well. The knee length black number that I bought with the winnings of my one and only soccer bet. Thank you, Tim Cahill, for keeping me warm for three years by being the first to score against Arsenal way back in 2006. I was looking the coat over before putting it on this morning and I noticed that the elbows are looking decidedly worn. I don’t think it’s going to see me through another winter after this. It will be added to the list of things I will be leaving behind when I leave London. And I’ll miss it; it features prominently in my winter travel photos, the few occasions that I have let myself appear in them. There I am, wrapped up against the cold with varying hats, gloves, scarves, and my trusty black, double-breasted, knee-length coat, always looking more stylish than any other coat I’ve managed to find. With the coat will vanish something of my self image.

Of course it saw less wear last winter than before. The second round of Heathrow injection kicked in to make it a little too snug to wear with enough layers underneath it. This year it seems to be more snug, but I’m fairly certain that it’s just me. If it was really any more snug than it was last year, the bottom button wouldn’t do up, rather than just straining ever so slightly. But whatever its fit, whatever the reason, it is gradually inching closer to the charity shop haul at the end of my London life.

It sounds like I have written that as a metaphor for my London life; it’s really not. It’s just an ode to a coat that has seen me through a lot. I could write a similar tribute to my boots, but they can’t handle the pace and need to be re-heeled at the beginning of every winter. The coat, in contrast, something that never truly gets packed away in a place like London, just needs a quick brush and it’s ready for service. It might be poetic to link living in London with a tired, worn out piece of clothing that no longer fits me properly. Hell, I’d think I was pretty darned clever if I could do that and make it work. But at the end of the day? It’s just a coat. There’s a new one in a shop out there waiting for me to have the right combination of time and money to find it. At the moment, it’s going to be waiting until kingdom come, but I know it’s out there somewhere. I just need to get off my butt and find it. In the mean time, my old faithful will have to serve. And do it well, given that we’re headed into the first week of temperature not reaching double figures this week.

I can’t tell if it’s the beginning of Christmas, or then end of the year. Either way, there is a touch of melancholy to the season for me. It’s my last full year in London, my last northern hemisphere winter. There are reasons to look back and reasons to look forward. I think I’ll focus on the forward, today.