THE ONLY WAY IS TIGHTLESS

My walking girlfriend ( from henceforth called Female Walker)  has a wealth of wonderful adages. She's one of those fabulous women that effortlessly oozes style, so the moment she sprouts an adage one strives to emulate. It's like having a schoolgirl crush - suddenly my previously set-in-stone opinions get wobbly and uncertain. Walking with her every morning is a bit like being back in school. I want to impress the Prefect. When she cast a dubious eye over my electric blue, waterproof Nike jacket last year I wanted to torch it. Just like that. I hated it.
The other morning ( and remember, we're talking early, bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated mornings) we were discussing tights. Female Walker asked me what I thought of tights. Black tights.
" Good, I think they're good," I replied with confidence. I mean what could possibly be WRONG about black tights? Black tights in winter are a no-brainer, surely?
" Mmmmn,"  pondered FW. " Silly of me I know, but for some reason I try very hard not to wear them until Christmas."

My legs swum before me, like a flicker photo book in reverse. I tried to remember Tights I Have Worn. And I sort of slightly dropped my walking pace. Because I suddenly saw the light. Thick black tights belong post-Christmas. They suit the long, dark days that follow when one is plunged into involuntary mourning for Spring. They are too try-hard for December; especially a mild one like this. They marry beautifully with chunky sweaters and boots; furry coats and layers. They need cold air and crunchy grass. Worn with mid-weight dresses and a cardigan they look clumsy.
" So what's the solution?" I ask tentatively.
"Tough it out," FW replies with authority. " Long skirts, trousers - perhaps a fine woollen tight if desperate. But not black."
" Not black," I mutter in agreement as we carry on with our walk the morning mist starting to rise.
Obviously, the only way is tightless. Until Christmas. I pray for mild weather.