Sinead Keegan

For the past few days London has been filled with a damp, thick fog and I, for one, have been loving it. Walking through streets lined with terraces houses, catching a glimpse of a famous landmark through the shifting, cloudy air, crossing the Thames enveloped in mysterious mists. It's all very dramatic and plays into my more melancholy, self-indulgent and melodramatic sides. It must be difficult to think of me as melodramatic, but there it is. I've been curling up with books, writing things that will no doubt turn out to be more angsty and forced than dark and intriguing, and there has been a veritable run on hot chocolate in our house. Amidst all my Jack-the-Ripper-dreaming I have also been thinking about how this is the first time in a year and a half that I have seen a true, honest-to-goodness London fog. Not just a morning mist or a hazy day, but a fog thick enough to require fog lights on cars, one that disrupts flights at Heathrow and one that settles in for the long h...