Ankle biting

It's getting to that time of year when bobbling opaque tights are pushed to the back of the knicker drawer, leather boots migrate under the bed to hibernate snugly beneath a thick layer of dust and long-sleeved jumpers sink down to bottom of the ironing basket until October. Socks are no longer required on a daily basis and the cardigan comes into its own as whispy clouds over the sun send mercury plummeting in seconds.

This is also the time of year when I find myself wishing constantly for legwarmers. Clearly it is too warm to struggle into ridiculous nylon tubes and encase the lower leg in leather, but the sudden blast of hostile April wind and relentless puffing of overly-optimistic air con up the linen trouser leg is a twice-annual misery that I wish there was a solution to.

There is an answer, but I just don't get on with pop socks. The time I have ever worn one was on my head when pretending to be a burglar as a kid. I don't know why I hate them, my mother thinks they are wonderful. Even my old flatmate - gorgeous, pouting, stylish and Corsican with eyes far bigger than her overdraft when it came to fashion, loves pop socks. I got her drunk once and made her ceremoniously burn them in a bowl. But within the month, I caught her sheepishly slipping out of her heels after a day at work and propping her pop-socked feet on the pouf.

I think I may well resort to stealth legwarmers under the trousers. I've done it before when shopping at the weekend, although smuggling 80s dancewear into the office is a whole different kettle of badgers. When I used to ride horses, we'd wrap carrier bags around our legs under our boots and that worked a treat, that might do. Or I could just sit and shiver until summer, when I can finally complain about being too hot.