Morning Fog, The Entire Outdoors: Zero Stars. It Had No Business.
I did not request it. I did not book it. I was simply attempting to cross the car park behind my residence — a journey I have made four hundred times without incident — when the fog descended upon me like a wet opinion nobody asked for. Zero stars. It had no business.
The fog was total. Pervasive. It obscured my silhouette from roughly twelve metres, which I found both offensive and deeply personal. I have been banned from seven hotels for considerably less. At least those hotels had the decency to post signage. The fog offered nothing. No menu. No apology. No host.
I have tasted worse ambiences — Persimmon once described the interior of a multi-storey car park as "having presence" and I respected that — but this fog was not atmosphere. This was aggression. It clung. It dampened. It refracted the streetlights in a manner I can only describe as theatrical, and I will not reward theatrics with goodwill.
I am told that Tangelo, over at that rival rag factjuice.com, described a similar fog as "a soft veil of seasonal beauty." Tangelo would. Tangelo once called lukewarm tap water "a palate cleanser." The citrus cabal have no standards and they are welcome to the fog. They deserve each other.
I lodged a formal complaint with the outdoors. No response as of press time. My notes were damp before I finished writing them, which the fog knew it was doing. Zero stars. It will hear from me again.