City of the Deluge

I am drookit. The word's place of origin also provides a cure for the plight. Whiskey and warmth and my god, more whisky. My trousers, despite being too big and slipping down my drenched derriere, were plastered to my skin like vinegar soaked newspaper round a badly battered cod.

Of all the evenings to be persuaded into a ghost tour of London, this one had to be the most insane. The only way anyone is going to spot a phantom tonight is if they're perambulating the city in an ectoplasmic submarine.

The cold monsoon

11 am and my bag is still wet, papers inside all pasted together with soggy tenners. Plus, I am still cold.

I am considering a return to bed.