by Henry VIII gets caught in genuine London fog and discovers a weather event with no interest whatsoever in negotiating
I once declared war over a single perceived insult delivered by a foreign ambassador. The fog that rolled across London one November morning did not acknowledge my existence at all, and reduced my entire street to roughly six feet of visibility.
The Warning
A yellow weather warning had been issued the previous evening, a colour I have since learned represents mild concern rather than genuine emergency, a colour coding system I find considerably more measured than my own historical approach to warnings, which typically involved either total confidence or an actual siege.
The Walk
I set out regardless for a scheduled gig, and within two streets found myself navigating almost entirely by memory, familiar landmarks reduced to vague grey suggestions, and I experienced, for the first genuine time since returning to this country, a real flicker of the exact disorientation I once felt crossing unfamiliar territory during an actual military campaign.
The Delayed Flights
My phone buzzed with a message from a comedian friend flying back from a gig in Manchester, delayed for four hours at the airport, a form of modern travel disruption I found genuinely sympathetic having personally experienced considerably worse delays crossing the Channel by considerably less reliable means.
The Cancelled Gig
The gig itself was cancelled entirely, the venue’s promoter explaining that half the audience could not safely drive in, a decision I accepted with genuine grace, having learned, slowly and at real cost, that weather in this country answers to precisely nobody, myself included, regardless of rank or historical precedent.
The Verdict
By early afternoon the fog lifted as suddenly and unceremoniously as it arrived, the city reappearing all at once as though nothing whatsoever had happened, and I walked home reflecting that I have negotiated with popes, emperors, and several furious wives, and none of them proved quite as immovable, or quite as indifferent to my rank, as a genuinely committed London fog.
The Rescheduled Gig
The promoter rebooked the cancelled gig for the following week, and the fog, mercifully, stayed away entirely, allowing the full audience to attend without incident. I have since started checking the weather warning colour each morning with genuine attentiveness, a habit that would have been considerably more useful to me during at least one actual military campaign in my original lifetime.
I have also started carrying a small torch in my coat pocket since that morning, a precaution Dev considers excessive and I consider entirely reasonable given how completely that fog swallowed the street. Fog, unlike most opponents I have faced, offered no negotiation whatsoever, and I have learned to respect that. Fog, unlike most opponents I have faced, offered no negotiation whatsoever, and I have learned, slowly, to simply respect that and plan accordingly next time. Fog answering to nobody belongs beside the general theme of my temper on a bad day. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: Britain’s emergency heat alert over a genuinely modest 30 degrees, the country welcoming its fourth heatwave with the traditional ceremony of blaming someone else, the original account of my own return to Britain.
