Yesterday, I went on my usual Sunday long run. It was one of those beautiful days, cold yet sunny, so that you get to wear a coat AND sunglasses (is there anything hipper?). I forewent my usual loop from my house in South London up to Battersea Park, along the Thames, and back. Instead, I decided to make an outing of it: run across the river, to Hyde Park, and take the bus home.
So where I typically find myself jogging alongside foliage and water, communing with nature, yesterday, I found myself window shopping as I huffed and puffed my way down Sloane Street, passing Knightsbridge and into the park. (Btw, the holiday display at Harvey Nichols is amazing!). I’m not sure if it was the constant audience afforded by a busy street, or the stick figure mannequins at every turn, but I felt super motivated and had a great run, banging out a solid 9 miles in 80 minutes. When I finished, dripping with sweat, panting, muscles tight, I knew what I needed. It came to me with resounding clarity, an image fully formed in my brain: a crimson cup speckled with snowflakes.
I have a confession: I am a slave to the Starbucks Christmas Cup. This is shamefully hypocritical for the following reasons:
1. I consider myself a coffee connoisseur (I say things like: “wow, the smoothness of the finish really balances out the limey acidity. Do I detect a hint of cranberry?”)
2. I’m a critic of consumerism (mass production depresses me)
3. I’m an environmentalist (I insist on carrying around a reusable coffee cup)
Yet, once a year, all of this sanctimonious integrity goes flying out the window because of a bit of red paper. I don’t know what it is exactly – the adorably cheerful drawings, the sense of occasion, the fact that you are drinking Christmas – but when Starbucks unveils it’s holiday lineup, I am a slave. Continue reading