Lisa and the City

The pavements of New York shimmered in the heat threatening to melt beneath my feet into rivers of molten tar. Stepping outside the dim entrance hall of the apartment building had been like walking into a solid wall of hot air that left me breathless and gasping. My timing, as ever, was perfect. I had chosen to spend a week in New York City, and this first record-breaking heat-wave of the year began on the eve of my arrival and ended on the afternoon of my departure.

I was simply not prepared. I looked with some disappointment at the immense suitcase I had dragged here, full of jeans, jackets, jumpers and shoes – oh the shoes: four pairs of boots, four pairs of heels, flats and a couple of pairs of trainers. This would never do, I decided, and braved the heat of the afternoon to go shopping for a more appropriate wardrobe.

I may have been in an unfamiliar city, but I possess an innate feminine ability to sniff out fashion stores from miles away like a shark tracking blood in the ocean. Madison Avenue finally appeared, like an oasis in the desert, stretching out into the distance with the promise of seduction at every gleaming window. I smiled like the cat who got the cream, and felt my credit cards cringing in anticipation of what was to come.

Two hours, three dresses, two skirts, one bracelet, one jacket, four tops and three pairs of sandals later I hailed a cab (with the confidence of a NYC big spender) and headed to a air-conditioned bar for a well-deserved G&T on ice. Would have been rude not to.