Winton and Clara are both very particular and like to pick out their own clothes in the morning.
Today (another in a string of 95F days) Clara, sensibly, chose to wear a loose-fitting cotton dress in pale blue and pale pink sandals ("I look like a robin's egg!").
Winton picked out a stylish but impractical ensemble: black shorts, a black long sleeve T-Shirt, green and white striped socks, and his heavy winter shoes.
We made it less than a quarter of the way around the dog walk (currently reduced to the circuit of one city block) when Winton stopped and lifted his arms (universal toddler speak for "carry me").
Me: "What? Carry you? The rest of the way? But you're a big boy. And a heavy boy."
Winton: "No. Not heavy boy. Hot boy."
Clara [chirpily, taking off at a run]: "Haha! And I look like a robin's egg flying!"
What follows: Me running behind Clara the rest of the walk, carrying Winton and hauling a truculent hound. 15 minutes of walk like that and it doesn't matter at all what I am wearing: all anyone will notice is the sweat stains, frizzed hair and pong.