Today's walk with the dog had a shade of the surreal about it, in the sense that evidence of the thin veneer of normality was heightened. Firstly I noticed I could clearly hear the Guildhall clock marking the hour. I realised that it must usually be suppressed by the drone of the city.
My usual route to the beach takes me across a very busy road and through a park. Today this busy road was completely deserted. Nothing moved, save for the changing traffic lights lifelessly controlling nothing. The next thing I noticed was that the colours of the park, of the houses that overlook it, of everything, were replaced by the sombre, queazy, palette of a George Shaw painting.
The sky was grey and dense. The only hint of the presence of the sun was a meagre strip of pink on the horizon. In the distance I heard the Guildhall clock mark another hour.