these boots are made for walking

I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m. Where the hell am I? And, more importantly, am I alone?

No, I am not. I am with Brad, in his hotel room. And I am still a little drunk. I also know from experience that it will be impossible for me to get back to sleep, even though Brad is out cold.

What do I do? Should I sneak out? But what will he think when he wakes up alone? Should I just lie here until he wakes up – which seems like it could be sometime in the New Year?

I am still feeling frisky, and it has been a while since I have felt the reassuring warmth of a man’s body next to mine. I decide to cuddle up to him. I guess he must have enjoyed my warmth as well, for Brad wakes up – more specifically, the bottom half of his body wakes up – and we make love again.

Then, I fall asleep.

I eventually wake up hours later. The bedside clock shows 10:00 a.m. I have never woken up this late in my entire life. And apart from still being a little hung-over, I feel fantastic.

So this is how I can overcome the dreaded 2:15-can’t-get-back-to-sleep jetlagged routine. I have finally figured it out.

Brad is also stirring from sleep. This is the first time we are looking at each other post-sex and completely sober, and we are feeling a little uncomfortable and a tad embarrassed.

‘Good morning.’

‘Morning.’

Brad gets out of bed, grabs a pair of underpants and makes his way to the bathroom. He is not quite as physically toned as I thought he was last night, but then again I probably don’t look like Heidi Klum this morning either.

Suddenly, I realise that I don’t really know much about this guy. I don’t even know his last name.

I hear the shower running so I sneak out of bed and open the cupboard to glance at the ID on his uniform: Bradley Dick.

Dick? I couldn’t marry this guy and take on that last name. Danielle Dick – yuck. Maybe I could hyphen it – Danielle Hugh-Dick?

There have been several times when people have misread my last name as Huge.

So, that idea is definitely a no-go.

Wait, why am I even thinking about marriage anyway? Only a minute ago, I didn’t even know his last name, and only a few hours ago, I was criticising how badly he dressed.

I try to look for positives. There are a few advantages to being with a guy that doesn’t spend money on himself. He can spend that money on me instead. Besides, he already has an expensive watch. And he also has a pair of good sunglasses, I’m guessing. Yes. He earns good money and is probably not that far away from becoming a captain, and from earning even more money. I could always buy his clothes for him and teach him a little style. I’ve seen too many other girls try to change a guy, and without success, to start believing my own inner monologue.

Brad returns from the bathroom. Although the hotel provides a free bathrobe, he has chosen not to wear it. Instead, he comes back to bed wearing the tightest and ugliest pair of old-fashioned briefs I have ever seen.

Teach him a little style? I think I’ll have to teach him a lot of style.

Still, I find it quite cute that he has chosen to cover himself up now after all the wild and uninhibited things we had done earlier.

I can tell he is a little shy about having someone in his bed.

Well, I am a little shy too.

Before it gets even more awkward for us, I suggest that it is time for me to go back to my room. I tell him about I plan to get dressed in every piece of clothing I have with me and go shoe shopping, while looking like a homeless bag-lady. He tells me that I could never look like a bag-lady and then suggests we catch up later in the day and grab a bite to eat.

Now we are talking, my shy little pilot lover-boy.

I leave Brad and sneak back to my room. I look out my bedroom window and although it is after ten o’clock it is still dark. European winters can be dreary. I look at the street light outside, and in its glow I can see the snow still falling. But the ground is covered in sludge as there has obviously been rain and sleet through the night. It looks so cold out there. I put on every piece of clothing I have. I even wear a pair of stockings under my thick socks and wrap the scarf around my head as well as my shoulders.

I pick up an umbrella from the concierge and thank my lucky stars that no one from the crew has seen me dressed so hideously. I step out into the Arctic blizzard, and the cold almost knocks me out.

I have never ever felt this cold before in my life.

I am only halfway to the nearest shop of any description and I am already numb from the top of my head to the bottom of my Christmas socks. The only part of me that is remotely warm are my hands.

Thank goodness for my hot pink gloves.

I can’t walk any faster as the slushy mixture of snow and sleet has already leaked through my non-waterproof sneakers and I dare not splash it up my already trembling legs. I am starting to regret my decision to tackle, what I later find out to be, the second coldest day of the year.

I dive into the first clothing shop I come across. It has the worst collection of women’s fashion I have ever seen, but the shop is warm. When I look in a mirror, I see that my lips are actually blue. I decide to stay in the shop for a while. I pretend to browse through a rack of dresses just so I can escape the cold outside.

Who on earth would be buying a summer dress when it is a million degrees below zero outside? I wonder as I flip through a rack of gaudy dresses.

I step back outside, ready to take on the elements again.

I am the world’s hardiest shopper: I could borrow the Postman’s motto of ‘neither snow nor rain …’ to show my will to shop. Today, I am going to get these damn shoes no matter what, and I will then get back to my room and sit in a hot bath until I look like a prune.

Fortunately a shoe shop is only a few doors down from the shop with horrible clothes. Unfortunately the shoes look like they have been designed to be worn with the aforementioned shop’s clothes. There is one pair of boots (tan again) that I could possibly make room for in my bulging shoe-cabinet back home; the boots are outrageously expensive though.

What the hell, I’m getting them. I just can’t track through the snow in my leaking sneakers anymore.

They don’t have my size, although I must say that I have forgotten what size I actually am in Germany. Every continent has a different sizing system for shoes, and when you have bought as many different shoes in as many different countries as I have, it is easy to get confused. What is not confusing, however, is that the boots I like come in one size only, and that size is way too big for me. I am so cold and so desperate that I even contemplate wearing an extra layer or two of socks just so the boots will fit. Surely I am not that despairing?

I trudge through the snow again until I finally find a shoe shop that suits my needs. It has beautiful shoes, is reasonably priced and has the biggest heaters I have ever seen in a shop. I take off my leaking sneakers and my soaking Christmas socks and sit down close to one of the heaters. With a shop-assistant looking curiously at me, I lift my legs up and dangle my naked blue toes in front of the heater.

I turn to the disapproving shop-assistant, ‘It’s alright, I am going to buy some boots, and I will take any pair of socks you bring to me as long as they don’t have the words ‘Ho Ho Ho’ written on them!’

I try on a gorgeous pair of black boots that seem to run right up to my armpits.

The more they cover my nana-pants, the better. ‘I’ll take them,’ I tell the assistant.

I spend another half an hour thawing-out in front of the heater, before I slip on a pair of fresh socks and my new boots. With renewed vigour I venture back out into the sub-zero torment. I find a supermarket and decide to grab as many supplies as I can carry, so that I don’t have to leave the hotel for the next two days.

Most German supermarkets have more bottles of wine than anything else, so I take my time and choose a nice bottle of French wine. My carry-basket bulging with enough supplies to last me the whole of winter, I trudge through the sleet and snow and make my way back towards the hotel. I find that my new boots are fantastically warm and fully waterproof. You just can’t beat leather!

However, the problem with wearing new leather soles is that they are smoother than a baby’s bottom, and it feels as if I were walking on what is effectively a sludgy ice-skating rink with freshly waxed mini-skis on my feet. As I concentrate hard on each and every little pigeon-step I am taking, I suddenly remember that I am meeting Brad for dinner tonight. I also remember that I don’t have any clean underwear.

I am so cold and desperate to get back to the hotel that I even contemplate washing the underwear I have already worn and reusing it.

Here I am trying to impress a new guy and I can’t even make the effort to get some nice underwear? No, I don’t need nice underwear, I decide. What I need is sexy underwear.

‘Damn it,’ I turn around.

I hope Brad appreciates all the effort I am putting in for him.