New York - Part 2

We knew it was going to be cold in New York. We knew this. In fact, as we were booking it, I did say, "You know it's going to be cold in New York, don't you?" We knew.

We even looked online at the weather forecast. "Ooh," we'd say, "ooh, it's -2 at the moment. Ooh."

As we arrived in New York to a practically tropical zero, it didn't feel so bad. Until the next day, when the temperature dropped.

One of two things is true: New Yorkers are obssessed by the weather, to the extent that it always makes the evening news, or else I happen only to visit New York during times of extreme weather.

I was pleased - at first - not to know how to convert to Centigrade. But it was 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I knew it was a bit chilly. But still, TheBloke (TM) and I had booked a swanky-pants looking restaurant and were going out for the evening. And of course I was going to wear my little black dress. Because I was gorgeous.

I was gorgeous. For about sixty seconds. Until my legs turned first red and then purple and finally blue. No-one remarked on the little black dress, but a few concerned glances from fellow subway commuters suggested they were recognising someone in the early stages of hypothermia.

Turns out 20 degrees Farenheit is about -7 Centigrade. I had bare legs. On the Laura scale of chilliness (which records temperatures from "A Bit Nippy" to "Fucking Hell It's Cold") we achieved a never-before-seen "Oh My God I Actually Think I Might Die".

Admittedly this level was achieved just once before in the Lake District in March, immersed in an underground tank of water. But I wasn't wearing a little black dress at the time. And trained staff soon bundled me into a fleece, sat me in a van and put the heaters on. New York City has no such trained staff. More is the pity.