Here’s a question for the radical-cum-practical chic amongst us: is there ever an excuse to wear full-on, puddle-sploshing Wellington boots in central London? It’s one I grapple with every time I see an overtly sensible offender in town.
My working list of acceptable answers goes as follows: “I was walking the dog in Hampstead Heath — totally waterlogged — when the dog pelted off towards Soho. I’m still looking for Poppy”; “You won’t believe it, I was just mugged — first they took the watch, then my lovely splash-proof leather boots. Oxfam only had these navy rubber wellies left in my size”; and, finally; “mate, look around, there’s five-inch flooding in every direction.”
