clouds, growl, sorry

Three clouds at sunset.

.

The unconscious noises made by the man sitting opposite me on the train begins to fascinate me. Every few minutes there occurs from behind his paper a low growl. Is it a purr of contentment?

Or an expression of suppressed rage? I am still asking myself the questions when he gathers together his things and leaves the the train At London Bridge. I will never know but I enjoy the speculation.

.

A pub, which we used to frequent in the distant past and visit yesterday, has suddenly become an old fashioned, busy drinking place, with excellent real ale. It is in a narrow street, lined on either side by workman's cottages now almost all of them, smartened up, or as they say, gentrified. "Look," says Barrett Bonden. On a lamp post opposite the pub entrance, testament both to its popularity and to the no smoking rules, which drive smokers who want to drink and smoke at the same time out of doors, is a notice which reads: "No drinking on this side of the street."