The Coat Of Wonders (or Why I Can't Really Move My Arms Anymore)

So, I've just been home for the holidays, and the repeated lugging around of all of my possessions has led me to question, fairly frequently, what on earth I actually consider necessary for a three week stint back in the UK. I mean, I had regular access to a washing machine, right? And not that many glittering events to attend? A smallish case should do me.

And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.

However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).

It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.

All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?

The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.

And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.

Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).

So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.

Totally worth it, right?