The Man and I are taking an impromptu midweek holiday. We’re spending the night in a swanky Cotswold hotel (one of the more unusual perks of the Man’s unconventional set of jobs). So of course the morning dawned cold and wet. Already late for work, I spent twenty minutes reading Sharon Olds in the dark house. Then got on my bicycle and swam through sheets of mist. Remembering something a friend told me last night about using the balls of my feet for more power, about imagining not that I’m pushing the pedals but that my legs at each revolution are being lifted up. Maybe it was my imagination, my willingness today to believe all things are possible, but I think I expended less energy than usual getting to the office. This feeling of possibility started yesterday evening, after I’d spent hours hard at work on The Book and we were at the pub. Blowing off steam. Live acoustic music. Somehow listening to that music gave me a strange sense of power. Or maybe it was the red wine.
But now, here I am, hours away from what should be a much-needed romantic and relaxing getaway (nothing better than abandoning the week halfway through, pretending to live more spontaneously than we do), trying to mentally pack, and all I can think is this (and I know it’s shallow, but somehow the fate of this experience seems tied to how well I’m dressed when we arrive):
What on earth do posh people wear when it’s raining?