One sees this
Mr Wood Goes Visiting by Dale Hall
Gloucester Terrace. Or Westbourne Terrace. Or Craven Terrace. Well, one or any of those streets leading north from Hyde Park. They’re all the same, at any rate. All five stories of regency stucco flanking either side, which appeared to Mr Wood at the time to be almost oppressive, but of course that could merely have been the driving London rain and its overcast point of origin. It collected there in the rim at the back of Mr Wood’s trilby and left via the front in a sort of depressed, miniature waterfall as if in an attempt to erode the overzealous bridge of his nose. From there, it parted at the tip to follow natural gorges along the edge of often flared nostrils and found its home in Mr Wood’s wellplumped and carefully positioned moustache. The point of a hat such as this, after all, is not to protect the face from the elements, but to protect the emerging bald spot from ridicule. Mr Wood turned directly, in a fashion which seemed at once purposeful and arbitrary, to face number sixty-seven of Gloucester, Westbourne or Craven Terrace. He pulled a damp note from his satchel and brought it close to his face, trying desperately to decipher meaning within scrawled letters and running ink. Promptly, he sidestepped the entrance to number sixty-seven to stand before a gate leading down to its basement flat. In doing so, Mr Wood caught sight of his reflection in the rain-spattered window. He considered that he might not be welcome here, that his visit could be inappropriate. 9
breed of minor calamity daily in the capital.
