London Fog

I just love this London fog. I can – not – get – enough.

Hey – yesterday I was walking in the fog, just loving it, and I thought why not simply open your mouth up and swallow the whole bloody lot of it?

So I did. Just one huge sucking in, and I was all filled up with fog, the London fog, and London – well, it had no more fog in it!

Sucking in the fog increased my size and billowiness, I think, by several thousand percent. I floated up above the city. Basically, I was a cloud. The view of London! The Thames was the signature on a prescription. St. Paul’s was a cold breast.

Everybody glanced at everybody, blinking and rubbing their eyes. My god, they could see London. They could see each other.

A young man was walking with … a youngish woman dressed like a young woman.

“You’re not twenty-six!” he cried, letting go of her arm.

“Tee hee!” laughed the woman, lifting up the skirts of her gown, and running off.

Two men were committing a lewd act against an alley wall. This became the Heimlich Manoeuvre. “Are you still choking, my friend?” cried the one man. “Mmm hmm,” said the other. “Just a little more, please.”

The prostitute was a good deal prettier and cleaner than the man from the bank thought she would be. “I’d … better be getting back to my wife,” he said, slinking off into the shadows.

There were so many rats that they were like … long ant-lines of rats tracking through the streets, up the walls, across men’s brightly-polished and laced-up shoes. This one rat wrapped itself up in the folds of a lady’s fur coat, and stuck its head out, like it was wearing a fur coat, too. The lady was so nervous she started chewing on her furred sleeve. Like a rat.

The ghost of Winston Churchill was chasing the ghost of a cigar. I was kind of rooting … for the cigar. It slinked into a man’s left nostril, and out his right. When Churchill tried to follow it, he got stuck. Ghost legs dangled out of the man’s nostrils, like a phantom stache.

People were screaming and passing out, now. They were vomiting and slipping in vomit. Some of them hit their heads.

This was no good, no. No, no, no.

So I spat a fog ball at the youngish lady. “Hello, gorgeous,” said the young man, taking her by the arm. “How about some sex?”

I spat another fog ball, a nice big one, at the men in the alley. They breathed faster, and faster.

A ball for the prostitute, balls for the rats, a ball each for the ghosts.

When I’d finished with the main things, I just belched the rest of the fog back out and it filled up the unimportant cracks.

I shrank back down to the regular size and plunked down onto the street.

Everything was as it was before.

Everyone was happier. You could just feel the happiness increase. It felt like sunshine. Even though it was fog.

I just love this London fog.