Day 361: Spoons not Spooks

Season of mists.  No mellow fruitfulness.  At least, not down by the Thames at Blackfriars.  Sepia river banks, and shadowy bridges rise out of heavy-hanging fog.  It doesn't take much of a leap to imagine mudlarks picking through the silt. 

Or the body of Roberto Calvi, hanging from some scaffolding, his pockets stuffed with bricks and cash. 

In the gloom of an early November morning, there's an air of shrouded secrecy to the river, winding deep and opaque through the heart of the city.  There's nobody around and I suddenly get spooked.

Beat a hasty retreat to a cafe.  It is misty with steam, and fruitful with coffee. 

No spooks here.  Just spoons.