The air was so chill this morning that not only were roofs and pavements thick with hoar frost - it was slippery; one had to watch where one walked - but chimneys and vents down the hill were steaming as if they belonged to some Pissarro painting of suburban south London in the late nineteenth century. As it was, I was heading down Spencer Hill to drop off paper work at the solicitors, and to drop off a bag of food debris into the rubbish bin by the bus stop - a small bag, but a lady standing there gave me a glare surely reserved for people who she suspected hadn't paid their Council Tax. But how else to get it off the premises, when I won't be back for a while?
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