I just had to quickly write something while it was still fresh on my mind. It's starting to get cold here and while that in and of itself is not good news, it does have its benefits. The one I want to address is the fog. Tonight is a perfectly foggy English night. I have to say, I love it. It fits so perfectly into the preconceived notion I had of what England would be like. There's something deliciously mysterious about fog, as if it is an ally concealing one's escapades from prying eyes. As I walked through the fog tonight in the orange glow cast by the street lamps, I pictured myself in a different time and a different place, dressed in a party gown and wrapped in a warm fur coat with the memory of the night's adventures bringing a smile to my face, wandering the early morning London streets after a night of pure indulgence. Oh, what might have been...
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But I don't think you would be wandering by yourself, my dear. I think some striking fellow wearing a dashing suit (much like the one Hugh Jackman wore in Australia perhaps?) would be walking arm-in-arm with you. The fog does sound lovely. There's a field of horses on a street with low-hanging oak tree branches on my way to work that often has fog nestled in it and I loved looking at it as I drive slowly by. But please remember my Jack the Ripper comment...
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