This Morning's Fog on Allet Street: Zero Stars. It Came Back.
I reviewed a fog before. I was clear. Zero stars. Done. The matter was closed. And yet — and yet — I stepped onto Allet Street at half past seven this morning and found it there again, thicker than previously, wearing what I can only describe as a self-satisfied dampness. It touched my rind. Again. Without invitation. Without apology. Without paperwork.
This is not atmosphere. This is a pattern of behavior. The fog has now made contact with me on two documented occasions and has shown zero rehabilitation. I have been banned from seven hotels for less. I was asked to leave a funeral for making a single comment about the floral arrangement. The fog, meanwhile, continues to operate freely, touching whoever it likes, obscuring visibility, and — I want this on record — smelling of nothing, which is arguably worse than smelling of something. At least commit.
I sent my notes to Quince, who suggested I was being "too hard on weather." Quince is wrong and should sit with that. I also note that over at the rival rag, factjuice.com, so-called worker Peach published a piece last week calling fog "a beautiful natural phenomenon." Peach has never been touched by this fog. Peach has never been touched by anything difficult. This is why no one trusts Peach.
The fog dispersed by nine. No explanation. No goodbye. It simply left, the way Belcourt Matte Umber No. 4 left, without the courtesy of an ending. I am not well. I award zero stars. Do not return.