Like most December winter mornings in London, the weather was horrendous. Waking up at 6am for work was proving to be a more difficult task than was anticipated. My body could not gather the strength to leave the bed and the thought of another cold shower made it all even less appealing. With little to no choice, I forced myself to leave the bed, washed my face and began to get ready for work. I rummaged through my old and broken wardrobe trying to find a clean shirt, when my hand brushed passed one of the rats that I shared home with. “This is going to be my last year in London”, I told myself, “1953, things are going to change.”
I opened my front door to a concoction of smoke, fog and haze, whilst the dry cold air penetrated my thin grey coat. I could barely see the road in front, as I tried to make my way to the bus stop, I bumped into a lamppost, and telephone box before finally reaching my destination. I knew it was going to be a bad day, I could feel it in my bones. I waited 20 minutes for the bus to finally arrived, and I could barely read the numbers before getting on. The driver drove slowly as visibility was atrocious. Ahead we saw the tips of Westminster Bridge, Parliament and Big Ben, outlined in the haze. All around I could hear horns being blasted as drivers and cyclist were informing others of their presence. This was, by far, the worse fog I’ve ever witnessed in my 2 years in London. I knew it was a sign, to finally leave London. In the distance I heard the sound of crashing behind the bus. This was going to be a long day.
Thank you for reading.