Fog on the round

Thick fog this morning, the sort that rolls in off the water and sits on the harbour like it owns the place. I do not mind weather as a rule, weather and I have an understanding, but fog is a cheat. It takes a perfectly good street I have walked ten thousand times and makes it into ten thousand streets, all the same, all wrong.

I stood at what I believed was the Camerons' gate for a good while before noticing it was in fact a hedge wearing fog the way a hedge should not. The actual gate turned up eleven feet to the left, looking very pleased with itself. I do not trust a gate that moves.

Every chimney looked like every other chimney. Every door was the same grey smudge of a door. I delivered three letters purely on faith and the memory of which step creaked, which is not how a professional operates, but needs must when visibility is down to one's own beak.

By the time the sun burned through, round about the eleventh house, I had developed what I can only call a philosophy about fog, which is that it is rude, and that the harbour should see about it.

Still. Letters all landed where they ought, more or less, and I cannot say that for every postal service on this coast.