The summer of 1951 was one of the hottest and balmiest Rome had ever known, which was of little consolation to Bloatmingle who was in Crouch End at the time. Days of depressing drizzle, interrupted only by the odd day of depressing torrential rain filled the atmosphere with misery and the streets with puddles. Dawn was breaking over the wet, grey city as Bloatmingle lit his pipe with a casual flourish. He had to, matches were still rationed. With his lungs full of Beryl's Old Shag, he turned up the collar of his police issue raincoat, walked out into the rainsoaked street and hailed a cab.
"Another rotten day, an' no mistake, eh, Guvnor?" said the dentally challenged cabbie as they sped toward Scotland Yard. "Worst summer fer fifty years, so some bloke on the wireless was sayin'. Gor blimey. Reckon that Noah had the right idea, buildin' that ark, eh, sir? Strike a bleedin' light, pard'n me French an all that, sir. Lummee!"
Bloatmingle nodded politely at the cabbie's jolly cockney badinage but his mind was elsewhere. There were more terrible things afoot than the weather.
Ahh ! Atmosphere, atmosphere !
ReplyDeleteMichael Fish