The month drags. One feels one is in a sort of tunnel formed of grey skies and tedium that stretches from late on Christmas Eve - by which time all the fun and festivity has been dissipated - to a point in the middle of February. Hateful. It is never warm, the pavements are generally wet and gritty and the town is still full of gawpers, the most objectionable of whom are those loitering on Tower Bridge, jabbering and pointing their digital cameras at each other, heedless of people trying to get to work.
It is the 9th of January but feels like the 45th. Weak sunlight on the birch trees across the courtyard. Hazy. This is as good as it gets.
No comments:
Post a Comment