Snow Day 2010 was, every Londoner agrees, was the most momentous event in human history. I met this girl, who seemed to like me, and drank so many vodka martinis that friends later said at one point I was dribbling. At the end of the set off home without my shoes. In the snow. The girl still agreed to see me after. She had nice curly hair and a satiny deep voice caused, I learned in the course of our pissed-up chatter, by polyps on her throat. She had inelegant long hands, which, at the silly novelty restaurant I'd suggested we meet at for a 'date' (we ate inside a hollowed-out gold papier-maché egg) I felt compelled to fondle.  It was probably seen as prematurely intimate. We didn't see each other again.

The sky is an indigo dome.
The bare trees locked in stasis.
It will snow soon.
What's happening is that a warm front is moving east from the Atlantic and meeting a cold front moving in from Siberia.
Precipitation is inevitable.

I just saw a fox.
Just mosied down the pavement, brazen as you like.
Electric lights are glowing in the city streets, amber beacons, reassuring, like the 'on duty' lights on taxis.
No one walks though.
Just this fox, brazen a you like.