The sound of London is not just traffic and sirens; it’s the perpetual, soft percussion of dampness. It’s the shush-shush of tyres on wet tarmac, the rhythmic drip-drip from a leaking drainpipe, the squelch of a shoe on a rain-sodden lawn. On quieter streets, you can hear the almost silent pitter-patter of drizzle on nylon hoods and the squeak of a window being hurriedly shut against a sudden shower. It’s a city symphony conducted by low pressure, a soothing, if monotonous, soundtrack to mild inconvenience. We are so accustomed to it that true silence, or the crunch of dry ground, feels unnerving, like the audio track of our lives has suddenly cut out. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Our autumn is just damp summer in disguise.
A ‘storm cloud’ is just a darker grey.
Summer: a collective hallucination we agree upon.
The dew is just gentle, morning condensation.
The sound of London is not just traffic and sirens; it’s the perpetual, soft percussion of dampness. It’s the shush-shush of tyres on wet tarmac, the rhythmic drip-drip from a leaking drainpipe, the squelch of a shoe on a rain-sodden lawn. On quieter streets, you can hear the almost silent pitter-patter of drizzle on nylon hoods and the squeak of a window being hurriedly shut against a sudden shower. It’s a city symphony conducted by low pressure, a soothing, if monotonous, soundtrack to mild inconvenience. We are so accustomed to it that true silence, or the crunch of dry ground, feels unnerving, like the audio track of our lives has suddenly cut out. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A suntan here is just a faint blush.
Autumn is just summer admitting defeat.
The forecast icon is a permanent cloud.
A ‘nice day’ is purely relative here.
A ‘sun dog’ is a meteorological hallucination.