London suits the rain. Hunkered down on it's haunches - resting quietly in the muck. No longer having to dress up for the good weather. The shirts and flip flops were shelved long ago, even the cashmere scarves and herringbone tweed jackets are back in the cupboard, now it just wears a comfortable old anorak and squats massively under the downfall.
Don't get me wrong, the city is a beautiful place and I don't particularly glory in the gloom, it's just that there's a certain woeful mystery that settles down when the air is misty and the streetlights gleam between the droplets.
A face half reflected on the streaming window, schismed consciousness as you stare at, and through, yourself. This is not the time to search for meaning in the gaze of strangers. The weather brings on a dreary introspection. Better to just let the flicker of reflections wash over you and feel the brooding rock and tar that is London, dolefully tasting it's own memories, as you pass through it in the rain.
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You can see faces on the train??? I only get to see a rucksack half an inch from my nose!
It's only right that London shows this side of Englishness on such days.
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