I think I have at least eight layers on, including a thick woolly knee-length cardigan in a dull grey-green colour which I hate, and thick woolly scarves wrapped around my head. The insides of my stomach feels cold and shivery. I fantasize about hot chocolate. I crouch behind the wheel as I gingerly turn into the ice by the pavements to park and go and fetch my daughter from the after-school daycare. The ice crunches beneath the wheels.
A car door slams in front of me. A silvery car, which makes my darling used car looks like a wheelbarrow. A supermodel steps out, her back towards me. Her legs are long and bare. Her hair is long and straight and black, shampoo commercial hair. She is wearing a tight short black miniskirt, and a tight short-sleeved white blouse. Which is so thin you can see the outlines of the bra. She stands up straight on her high high heels, which has magical powers against the treachourous slippery ice. She half walks, half runs towards the daycare building. She is not shivering. The air turns to summer for her.
The rich and stylish are impervious to Canada cold.