Tiny droplets of rain are sunbathing on my bay windows, obscuring the view of the beautiful skies beyond.  Through the glass, I can see a terrace of old England, redbrick buildings, probably Georgian, each with its own red chimney tops. One of the chimneys is emitting a plumb of smoke, sending the white air into the ether.

It snowed today. I know that from the memory of walking through Baker Street in the biting cold, but also because the remnants of snow still lay silently on the rooftops of one of the neighbouring buildings, evidence of the crime of bad weather.

There’s a netting on top of some of the chimneys, which seems odd to me as surely it could catch fire? The colour patterns of the properties opposite also makes no sense. Some of the buildings are an orangey-red, which reminds me of my old school growing up, whilst others are a worn out yellowy-brown. The drainpipes and stairwells that snake down the buildings are all pitch black, not in any way trying to blend in with the buildings.

A solitary bird flies over the buildings. The clouds in the distant sky move ever so slowly westward with nowhere really to go. Somehow, without being outside, I can tell its cold, so I sit here in my black overcoat and green woolen scarf preparing for when I next venture outside.

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