Sussex columnist: Pete Tong and the tale of whether to wear a coat on a night out

​I did a review on our website, so if you want to read all about our big mums’ night out online, you can.

What made me think about it for the purposes of this column, is when we were doing our classic ‘what are you going to wear?’ texts in the days leading up to it.

Outfits were fairly easy to sort, but the coat situation proved more troublesome.

We were going through a cold snap, weather-wise, but we had standing tickets at the venue and I knew we’d be dancing a lot.

The coat would not be needed as soon as we got inside and I didn’t want to have to carry it for hours while I was trying to bust my best moves.

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‘Just don’t wear a coat and we’ll run from the car to the Brighton Centre’, Lynsey suggested; ‘It’ll be like when we went out when we were younger’, she reasoned. ‘You won’t be cold for long, and you’ll be hot when we come back to the car from all the dancing.’ *

While deep down I knew this was true, and probably was the answer to the coat dilemma, what Lynsey didn’t quite appreciate is just how much of a cold wuss I have always been.

Even when I used to go out clubbing in my late teens, you’d never catch me walking around coatless and with bare legs in the winter like most other girls my age. Nope, I was always ‘that one’ with the coat, thick black tights, cardigan underneath for extra layering and maybe even a scarf!

Because I just hate being cold. It’s almost a running joke in my family because of how many times a day I tell them about it.

On weekdays, my husband is treated to almost hourly updates by text about how I’m spending the day working from home in what feels like an igloo. And on weekends he gets a running commentary on how I’m ‘like a block of ice’, usually accompanied by a plea for him to feel my icy cold hands just so I can really stress my point.

(My daughter will often refuse to hold my hand as it’s too cold, so it’s definitely true!)

And it doesn’t just stop with my family. There’s barely a day where somebody in the school playground/on a work call/in a shop isn’t told how cold I am.

I’ve never seen myself as a likely candidate for performing arts, but when it comes to expressing my concern about my plummeting body temperature, I’m all about the drama.

My snowman-like disposition means I’m prone to ‘overwrapping’ my children. If temperatures are forecast to get a bit low, they get the full Arctic explorer treatment. Vests, long-sleeve tops for layers, fluffy jumpers, two pairs of socks. Think Michelin Man and you’ll get the look I go for.

Because nothing makes me feel colder than I already do than seeing other people dressedinappropriately for the weather.

Ask my children and they’ll tell you that many a morning is spent tutting on the school run, as teenage pupils head to school without jackets on.

When it was below zero a couple of weeks ago, we saw one boy in just a short-sleeved shirt. I could almost feel his pain.

And don’t even talk to me about the man I saw in shorts and flip flops. It brings on an irrational anger in me at how anyone could willingly allow themselves to be so exposed to the freezing elements.

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Much to my husband’s amusement, evenings are spent sitting under a large fluffy blanket (there is a chance I’ve been compared to somebody of the older generation in a nursing home) or inside my very fetching Oodie (basically, a wearable blanket with a hood).

So, while the rest of you wish for a white Christmas, I’m going to enter a short period of hibernation to shelter from the cold (read: she’s taking a couple of weeks off to stuff her face with mince pies and mulled wine).

I’ll be back in January with, probably, more tales of the ridiculous. Merry Christmas, everyone!

* In case you were wondering, I didn’t wear the coat. But I did find a small cardigan that fitted into my handbag. Phew!