Declamatory

Someone used this word today to describe my blogging, which I hope was a generic critique rather than a stylistic one. I suppose he may have been alluding to what my friend Bo calls my "Queen of the Night" moments. It is true, I think, that ire and indignation make better copy but I do try not to give the impression that I sit over here cultivating hypertension, so please don't start me on the banks.
In any case, I am devoid of bombast today. Instead I am giving thanks for the genius that is the capsule wardrobe, a fine thing in general but one which never, ever comes in more useful than when packing: it literally saves me days of thought and planning. It also enables me to buy expensive basics in colours other than black or camel; hence Saturday's investment in (steel yourselves) moonboots and a puffer jacket in vibrant red. I know, I can't believe it either. They are not exactly elegant. The very best I can hope for is a kind of cosy cute appeal from my rosy face poking out of the fluffy-edged hood and the childlike shiny welly quality of the patent moonbot toes, and even this hope really is pushing it. So I balked considerably at the purchase, but in the end chic black wool overcoats just don't keep the cold out like a big red duvet, as demonstrated by the fact my legs went numb on the way home today. It was only zero degrees. It goes down to 30 below in February. What can I do? The Scarlet Downie Combo is not a thing of beauty, but looking like an inflated tomato with tree trunk legs is, on balance, probably fractionally more attractive than frostbite. I just keep telling myself: shivering is never a good look.