The F in Fog

As if to demonstrate that it is capable of cranking out every possible type of climate in the space of a week the weather turned it's hand to fog this morning. The garden was draped with cobwebs, bejewelled with droplets of dew. A heavy bank of mist shrouded the woods curling through the trees and muffling the usual bird song. It was eerie but more importantly deliciously cool after the humidity of recent days.

By the time I got onto the motorway the fog had lifted although some numpties stubbornly kept their fog lights illuminated long after the last of the warning signs had been switched off. The threat of a rogue fog bank is sufficient to make them light up their car like a Christmas tree but apparently not dangerous enough to slow down from their usual 90 miles an hour.