Very weird fog over the city this morning. Like something out of a James Herbert/Steven King novel. Except I figure that the inhabitants of Chapel Street and Potato Wharf are not hacking each other to bits and/or having sex with each other in public spaces as a result of the fog's descent. (They save that for weekend nights - see previous entries...)
I have very strong memories of how the similar plot of some grim horror pot boiler was recycled around the playground for weeks on end at the start of the school year when I was about 12. The thought of people being driven to have sex with each other due to the descent of an unusually heavy mist was disturbingly attractive. Given that it took about four weeks to get a girl I didn't like very much to kiss me by the bins (those behind the canteen - I didn't possess bins myself and am not using them in a filthy and metonymic way - but I don't fancy adjusting my grammar at this time of night) it seemed like a short cut to sexual experience sent from heaven - not just the clouds. You must remember, I come from the North East - heavy mists are ten-a-penny . Turn aroung too quickly and you could miss the latest haa. [That could be 'haaa' - I forget how many 'a's there are in the word.] And that could be it - cursed to virginity until next break time at least.
It did look really odd when I got up today. But by mid morning it was a beautiful day. Not hot enough to encourage a life-endangering swarm of fountain bathers in Piccadilly, but still warm enough to ensure the release of many an upper arm from its double-knit prison.
I'm sure the whole thing can be explained in terms of global warming/climate change/environmental disregard/physical topography and industrial production. By a man in a tight jumper. With lop-sided glasses.
That's what I liked about the playground. Terror is a much more impressive option - belief could be suspended for minutes at a time.