We are buried under a blanket of grey cloud. A blanket knitted by depressed old women whose only enjoyment in life now comes from spreading despair among their fellow human beings. A blanket of low-hanging, thick-set monochromatic horror that makes the air damp and slowly deposits drizzle on the world below without ever seeming to lose any of its volume. A blanket that covers the entire sky from horizon to horizon, from East to West, from zenith to nadir, from coastline to city centre with not even a stamp-sized spot of blue to give us hope of better times. I used to think a nuclear winter would be the worst kind of climate to encounter, but at least with a nuclear winter you get some snowfall. It might be laced with enough radioactivity to melt your eyes within a nanosecond but at least it would look pretty while falling and give us something to distract us from our misery. All we have today is the tiring monotony of concrete grey looming above us like a blanket of boredom.
I hate it.
RC 25-7-17
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