Thin grey fog, one of many types from pea soup to frozen fog, each with their own character, every one whispers, calling me away from my appointed rounds. Diverted, delayed, distracted, I banked the Vespa from the pavement onto the gravel and into the fog. I can’t resist, in honesty I don’t desire to resist. In the dim mist a boy’s dreams of mystery, suspense and adventure come to life.
The little ride to work has a bit more bite, a little more grit.
Life on a Vespa is sweet. A ride in the fog is magnificent.
Just watch out single strands of fence wire strung across open gates…