Puddles and Tea

Slate roofs slant just right to catch the rain and send it flying down to dump on passerby below, some wise enough to bring umbrellas; the rest can't be bothered. A rain jacket suffices for you, the dripping hood restricting your vision down to the trainers slogging through puddles in the pavement, and maybe a pair of heels and hose stepping just in front.

A gust of wind sends leaves flying, and you feel the impact of tiny ice balls against your sleeve. That's the signal to dip into a tearoom. Ducking under the low lintel of a place called "Wimpole Cottage" or "Brewberry Bakery" or something equally twee, you settle down at a corner table with its lumps of sugar and enticing menu. The specials are chalked on the wall, the high prices dwarfed by words like "smothered," "traditional," and "sticky." You throw prudence to the wind and order two slices of something chocolaty from the traybakes counter, along with the obligatory pot of tea.

Sit back and lean against the foggy window to watch all the other poor saps slog through puddles in the pavement, some with umbrellas, and the rest who can't be bothered.

Photo: Regent Street Red by Pedro Moura Pinheiro