It's wicked to mock the afflicted

In this city, Sundays are still a day of rest. The whisper of traffic that comes through the window arrives at long unhurried intervals. The winter sun barely makes an effort to cross the sky. It takes a short cut through the grey which hangs low in the west. The darkness and the wet chill this Sunday especially quiet. I will venture out later. The weather forecast calls for fog. This city wears fog like a royal ermine. I love to see her tall gothic steeples entangled by the viscous clouds that roll off the sea. The street lamps are reduced to a weak glow. Inside a pub, I’ll sit and watch the fog pull itself along the window. I’ll have a drink and take a slow walk home to watch the city show off its gossamer robes.