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." The late afternoon of December 3rd 1899 found the great city of London festive under another heavy fall of snow that had lasted for most of that day. Normally a pallid grey, the landscape was a crisp and frosty white from where countless chimneys belched clouds of smoke as the populace endeavoured to keep warm as the ill winds of Winter bit deep. Bouncing down Ludgate Hill towards the imposing edifice that was St Paul's Cathedral, a carriage-man pulled on the reins to draw his horse to a halt as the two seater hansom cab stopped outside a two story brick town house that still bore the outward facade of its original Tudor design. He laid his whip to one side and flipped open a hatch on the top of the cab. "Here we be, Sir." He called to the two passengers inside. "Number 22. Ludgate." His voice bore the signs of many an ale drunk and too many a bawdy song sung in his two score and seven years. His breath floated around him in clouds of white before fading away on a slight breeze.. ” Fortunately nothing much came up. I found some naproxen and slammed down a double dose. It didn’t sit well, but it sat. Emily unbuttoned my shirt as I stumbled to bed. I didn’t last long. *` I awoke a few hours later, my head down to a dull roar. The scent of fresh coffee filled my nostrils, and I came out. Emily was asleep in my easy chair with her laptop. She shook her head and smiled when I shambled into the living room. “You look a lot better. When I saw you this morning you looked like Death himself.” “I felt like dying. What are you doing here?” “I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.” “My stomach is fine now. Do you want some coffee?” “Absolutely. Why did you drink that much? I haven’t seen that bottle out for a long time.” I told her I had been thinking of Theresa because I knew she’d believe it. She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me direct in the eye. “Gary, listen to me. You can’t carry a torch forever sweetie. Theresa’s the kind of person whose career will always be.
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