The Fog on Allet Street: Zero Stars. I Know It Recognises Me.
I have been banned from seven hotels. I have been asked to leave a funeral. I am not, as some have suggested, the problem. The fog on Allet Street, however, very much is.
It arrived again at approximately six-fifteen in the morning, unsolicited, uninvited, and — I wish to be precise here — thicker than last time. It had texture. It had opinions. It pressed itself against my outer rind with what I can only describe as a presumptuous familiarity, as though we were colleagues. We are not colleagues. I do not have colleagues who behave this way. Even Pokeberry, who once reviewed a roundabout for twelve consecutive issues, has the decency to dissipate by noon.
The fog offered no menu. It offered no seating. It reduced visibility to approximately four feet, which I will note is exactly the distance at which Tangelo and the rest of the so-called workers at factjuice.com prefer to operate — close enough to obscure, too cowardly to clarify. Coincidence? I have filed a formal inquiry with myself and the results are pending.
It did not smell of anything, which is the most offensive thing a substance can do in my presence. I have a reputation to compete with. The least it could offer is effort. It offered grey. Undifferentiated, unpunctured, artless grey. No top notes. No finish. A void with the confidence of a man who has been told he is interesting once at a party and has never recovered.
Zero stars. I will be there tomorrow. So will it. This is not over.