The weather was freezing. I was freezing. I knew that London in the dead of Winter would be cold, but this was beyond cold.
This was a teeth-chattering, bone-chilling, icicles-hanging-from-your-nose kind of cold.
I’d only been in England for ten days, and already I found myself wondering what the warning signs were for frostbite, and if I should be concerned.
I stood shivering on The Strand, one of London’s busiest thoroughfares, marveling over the fact that everything around me seemed colorless and grey.
Even the very air seemed hard and frozen and stabbed at my lungs every time I took a breath.
Considering the fact that I had lived in warm and sunny California my whole life, I really should have expected that moving to London in January would take more than a little adjustment.
I burrowed down deeper into my long woolen pea coat, wrapping the collar more closely around my neck, and buried my hands in the oversized pockets.
My turtleneck sweater, plaid wool skirt and sturdy brown leather boots did little to stave off the bitter cold,
and I made a mental note of several articles of clothing that I would have to purchase immediately – hats, gloves and scarves being at the top of the list.
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