Fog on the bridge

First thing this morning, I took the poodles down to the vet for their yearly check up and booster shots. They both came away with an excellent bill of health. Actually it’s one of the only times Carmen has not been told off for eating too much. She had a jaunty spring in her step on the way home.

The morning was crisp and clear, the sky perfectly blue. Apparently we’re in the middle of a brief summer revival. The rain is due to return tomorrow and a serious drop in temperature with it. It was a good job, therefore, that I painted the window frames with the amethyst.

The sky wasn’t that obvious in Sheppey, though.

There was an awful crash today on a bridge in Sheppey this morning. There was a thick fog, with visibility down to 20 yards and, I assume, drivers were going a bit too fast for the distance they could see. A witness said:

You would hear the screeching of brakes and then a thud. It was all you could hear for about 10 minutes – crash after crash after crash.

In all, 130 vehicles slammed into each other. It was extraordinary that no-one was killed although there were loads of injuries, eight serious.

It reminded me of the story that dad tells me about the thick fog he experienced when he was a young man in London. So thick, he couldn’t see his feet as he walked home after seeing mum to her door.

When I told this story to my readers at Talking Newspaper this afternoon, John, the engineer, chipped in with this story of his experience of British fog.

He was driving home one night after work. It was late and the fog was very thick. He drove slowly, watching the lines in the road out of his window, as they did in those days. He was incredibly careful and finally pulled into his drive and stopped in front of his garage.

He stepped out of his car to open the garage door when a voice from behind his car shouted out, asking him why he’d stopped. The voice belonged to a man who had been following John’s tail lights, thinking he must know where he was going.

John answered the man, telling him he’d stopped because he was home. He doesn’t know what happened to the man afterwards.

There was a lot of laughter in the studio, almost as much as my remark about blind photography later during the session. I wasn’t being rude and I should explain.

I’d read a short piece about the Alton photography club. It was a story asking for members to come to their meetings and embrace photography. After finishing reading, I added that while the listener may think the piece irrelevant, that there were quite a few blind photographers. I’d read about one in New York who was very successful. Of course, I added, his photos were rubbish.

Oh, how they laughed. I felt sorry for Di having to get herself under control to read her next story straight after me.

I did think, a little later, that I might have gone a bit too far but was pleased when Clive, a new reader with me, said he really liked my style. Liz, typically, told me off with a sparkle in her eye.

And for today’s Bob update…he made it to Ireland. The trip to Wales was fine as far as Chester but then he experienced, what can only be described as, railway incompetence.

With no indication, his connecting train was late. He boarded a train with no air conditioning or first class, merely hoping it would reach Conwy. Fortunately, it did.

He joyfully watched as Graeme accidentally ordered and ate three burgers for dinner (chicken, lamb and beef), something for which Graeme is undergoing quite a bit of ribbing.

Bob also mentioned that while the cyclists in Dublin are better than the ones in England, the pedestrians are worse. I’m not sure what this means.

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2 Responses to Fog on the bridge

  1. I will tell dad you told his story over the air.
    love mum x

  2. Mirinda says:

    Carmen only got away with it cos they didn’t weigh her! I think she’s going to need a little step to get on to the bed soon.

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