Fashion in March London is a contact sport. You will see someone in a thick wool coat walking beside a person in shorts and sandals. Neither of them is wrong. Both of them are miserable in their own special way.
The real uniform is the “coat-scarf-boots” combo, but with a flimsy jacket “just in case.” Everyone is layered like a human onion, ready to peel or bundle up at a moment’s notice. And we all have that one pocket dedicated to a crumpled, emergency plastic poncho.
Don’t even get me started on shoes. Leather soles are a death wish. March pavements are a slick, treacherous mix of last week’s leaf sludge and today’s drizzle. Wear something with grip, or you’ll be doing an involuntary interpretive dance on Oxford Street.
The Great Post-Rain Scent
One of my favourite things about March London is the smell after a rain shower. It’s that sharp, clean scent of wet earth and tarmac, mixed with a hint of exhaust and someone’s forgotten coffee. It’s oddly comforting.
It’s the smell of the city waking up. The Tube stations feel a bit less grim, the queues at Pret seem almost bearable, and for a few minutes, everything feels crisp and new. Then another bus splashes you, and the moment passes.
But that scent? It’s the aroma of possibility. It’s March saying, “I’m a mess, but I’m trying.”
London March Shows a Clown-Car of a Government What Its People Think of
