All things become two-dimensional. Carts, motor-cars, omnibuses are shadows that nose their way painfully like blind beasts. The fog has a flavour. Everywhere the fog grips the throat and sets the eyes watering. It puts out clammy fingers that touch the ears and give the hands a ghostly grip.
Children alone love it.
They press small faces to windowpanes and watch lights like little unripe oranges going by in the murk. Men who sell things in the streets become more than ever deliciously horrible. I go out into the fog and enter an incredible underworld. The fog has turned London into a place of ghosts. At one moment a man with a red nose and a moustache like a small scrubbing-brush appears with the suddenness of an apparition.