Jul. 13th, 2023

Watson tells me that his American readers have become enamored of our fogs. I can only assume that this is because they have seen very little of them. Perhaps the fogs there are like ours in the country, which simply transform a sunny lane with bent-over trees on both sides into a slightly more claustrophobic version, even if the trees are upright and only on one side.

London fogs are a different matter entirely. The fog mixes with the coal smoke and gets trapped in the city by air currents. It dulls sight, deadens sounds, and covers smells. In a fog, a detective has all three of the senses that work over distance hampered. Criminals are free to wander about with much less risk of interference.

But this is not the worst effect of the fog. It robs all of health. The dampness gets into my joints and makes it harder to play. Even worse, it gets into Watson's lungs when he is on his rounds, no matter how much he tries to muffle his coughs so I don't here. I must get him away from the city. Perhaps if I play up my rheumatism and say that I need to go, he will follow me.

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upstairsfromreality

July 2023

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