Monday I described the beautiful bands of mist I was driving through that evening.
I grew up at the bottom of the Thames Valley, a place I always hated. But you can never escape your roots, however much you try.
The mists pull me back in time whenever they come by and remind me of earlier times of fields lined with pollarded willow trees, harsh winter mists and the waterlogged ground of the bleak valley.
Today all the mists joined up. We had a mystical, magical fog which hung everywhere like a silent shroud.
Silent because Heathrow airport couldn't cope with it, an eery quiet. It hung on all day and into the evening. I even had a rare moment of good sense and didn't go out in it.
Second night in a row - what have I come to?
These are water droplets hanging on spider webs, shivering in the breeze, like me.
(a don't stop till you drop production)