Last night the fog was the densest that I have seen so far in Leeds. London mornings were worse, but that, my dear, is London. The sky is clearer now - as clear as it would get for the day I guess.
The first month that I was here, I could not help wonder where all the seasons of mellow fruitfulness were. This is the land, the clime that inspired the best poets of all times. This!! Yes, I was forewarned about the weather - the weather - before landing here, but nothing could have quite prepared me for this. Now I know where "blame it on the weather" came from... Anything - from bungled assignments, malfunctioning toilets, erratic microwave ovens to PMS - can actually, and quite conveniently, be blamed on the weather.
So all those poetic patches... were they just a figment of dope-induced imagination or were they brief snatches of reality immortalised forever? I dearly hope it's the latter (although the cynical nag in my head points a sadistic finger at the former), for I too shall get my own snatches and frame them forever on the walls of my mind.