Interesting that in media speak temperatures never seem to merely "rise" and "fall"; they "soar" and "plunge" or even "plummet". We seldom get "high" winds; rather they are "gale force" and rain is never "heavy" but the more diluvian "torrential".
So I'll give this media language a go describing my day. Hope it impresses you all and leads to me being offered a sub-editor's job somewhere.
I flew from my bed at the very crack of dawn this morning, rapidly making a bee-line for the bathroom. After some vigorous teeth-brushing I wolfed down a high-fibre dose of sustenance (well, okay, muesli) before navigating the slush-filled Edwardian thoroughfares of Metroland and then plunging to a subterranean voyage on the Northern Line.
A fact-packed morning of studious endeavour followed, my fingers flying across the pages of a notebook like a swallow soaring through some alpine valley.
A traditional East End hostelry served to me some of its best foaming ale before I privileged to see the London of the twenty first century truly rolling Eastwards towards the site of the XXX Olympiad, beyond Bazalgette's effluvial temple.
A secondary subterranean projection brought me back to the bosom of my hostess (eh?), where a sumptuous supper ushered in the opportunity of a somnorial interlude.
Think I'll stick with the tour guiding. Goodnight!
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