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It has been a while since there was such fog hanging over Cambridge, lending a misty pallor to the town and its streets. There is a mysterious enchantment to the mist. It swirls around you in playful spirals when you walk, when you breathe, when you turn your head.

Almost ethereal.

Almost magical.

I remove my spectacles and try to rub them clear, but realise that my spectacles are bright and clear - it is but the mist that has painted an illusion. Oh such haunting beauty, rightly befitting of this old town.

Can you not imagine the stories that lie behind these misty veils? Do you not see the plots enacted by men and mice behind this curtain of translucence?