It's gone a bit dark over Bill's mother's...

Some years ago, when first I moved to London¹, I lived (for far too long) in a hostel in SW7 just off Gloucester Road. One weekend, about this time of year, I was queuing for lunch and happened to mention to one of my friends just how gloomy the normally reasonably well-lit corridor was. A voice behind me announced in a gruff baritone, “Stygian, Dear Boy; positively Stygian!” The speaker was a man in late middle age, dressed rather dapperly in a three-piece suit, bow tie and sporting a marvellous handlebar moustache, looking every bit the retired colonel down on his luck.

I mention this simply because after the mild sunlight of lunchtime, it has gone rather dark outside and we have been debating the likelihood of a decent thunderstorm. I think it’s a given that it will absolutely pelt down, but the possibility of a good thumping celestial mix up is less certain.

Later: In fact no: sunny again. I think I'll go home.

¹OK, OK, I’ll stop being coy. It was 1984.

It's gone a bit dark over Bill's mother's...

Some years ago, when first I moved to London¹, I lived (for far too long) in a hostel in SW7 just off Gloucester Road. One weekend, about this time of year, I was queuing for lunch and happened to mention to one of my friends just how gloomy the normally reasonably well-lit corridor was. A voice behind me announced in a gruff baritone, “Stygian, Dear Boy; positively Stygian!” The speaker was a man in late middle age, dressed rather dapperly in a three-piece suit, bow tie and sporting a marvellous handlebar moustache, looking every bit the retired colonel down on his luck.

I mention this simply because after the mild sunlight of lunchtime, it has gone rather dark outside and we have been debating the likelihood of a decent thunderstorm. I think it’s a given that it will absolutely pelt down, but the possibility of a good thumping celestial mix up is less certain.

Later: In fact no: sunny again. I think I'll go home.

¹OK, OK, I’ll stop being coy. It was 1984.