Totter, totter, totter.

Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse leads to Paradeplatz, where the mighty (perhaps less so these days) banks have their headquarters. Where countless men in unimaginative black suits, mackingtosh jackets and dull shoes trundle in to the sombre looking buildings early in the morning, and where they daundle out of after dark, leather briefcase in hand.
It makes sense that the street that leads to this money pot is also paved with gold. Dior, Luis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci and other pretentious places where they deem themselves so trendy they need door staff. I tend to find the customers of these sorts of places rather amusing at the best of times; they dangle their hideously shiny silver handbags on their elbows, they drag their Gucci-coated anorexic grey dog on its pink ribboned lead and they totter along on the uneven paving on their uncomfortably angular shoes, into one guarded shop. Out of one guarded shop. Into the next. Out of the next. Totter totter totter.
In my mind, many of these women are the wives or lovers of Russian oligarchs who are off in some less ordered corner of the world making a 'Deal.' I have no idea if they are indeed wives of oligarchs. I don't particularly care; they look daft, whatever they are.
I have even less respect for these women since last week when large graceful flakes of pure white snow danced their way down onto Zurich's pavements at a speed and volume quicker and greater than Zurich's fleet of snowploughs. It was beautiful. The women tottering on their high heels in the snow were not. But they have been practising balancing their handbags on their elbows so they are pretty good at that, even in the snow in their overpriced shoes.