A while back I stepped out of the house in the morning and found myself in the midst of a completely impenetrable fog. Somewhat elated by this but otherwise nonplussed, I leapt onto my bike (presently disassembled awaiting repainting - oh my darling, how I miss thee) and set off.

It was definitely my kind of day, thoroughly weird and fey. Cars all had to travel at a crawl like confused buffalo, while I zipped around them and cackled to myself. Sound just sort of happened, somewhere, entirely free of visual context. People became ghosts, appearing and disappearing intermittently.

And that was before I even got to the river. If elsewhere the fog was impenetrable, there, fed by the Charles, it was even more: practically solid, adamantine. It was mystery itself, drifting slowly across the surface of the water.

Midway along the bridge I happened on a girl, leaning against the railing, staring over at blank whiteness. I sidled up behind her. She broke from her reverie and half-turned towards me, startled. "Careful, miss," I croaked. "Cursed pirates sail these waters!"

Her face cracked wide with delight and she spun back to the mists expectantly, waiting for that mystery to unfold and birth something fantastic. And I put my foot down on my pedal and sailed on, feeling a little magical.