A pair of tights

Finally, it looks that I am not dead worn as these past days. And so I can write a little.

The summer seems so far away here in London. The weather is random, very mild if not suddenly cold, and the rain is taking too much preponderance. Nevertheless, tonight, the night is beautiful; a timid drizzling, about 15 degrees, I don't know about the moon. I've walked down Fortis Green, had a pint in a picturesque pub. A guy is hooked to the bar and holds a chained dog for ever, pint after pint. An hour before that, H., her kids and I watched Wuthering Heights on TV and fidgeted with the computer; an interesting English scene, I say.

I looked at a cars magazine in the pub and read this article about the old times and the old cars. "Who does not remember using his girlfriend's pair of tights as a fan belt?", the writer wonders. In fact, although I can't remember that as I don't know how to do it, never did it, likely never will, I recall Dr. N., a Nasa researcher in Huntsville who told us in Materials class what he used his wife's nail file for once his car abruptly stops.

Those years indeed were.

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