But John, there hasnt been any smog in London since the 1950s. And the river is cleaner than it has ever been. People fish for trout off it. And catch them. London is an extremely clean city. Of course you might not like the high rise buildings. And anybody would hate the arts complex on the South Bank. Horrid. Horrid.

John, I try to check my assertions, even in poems. What say you to this?.

In London a few years ago, I stood on the bridge and visited Tate Modern. The only thing about London that I didn't like was the Swiss Re Gherkin.

It is heart-warming to see these city rivers being rehabilitated. On another recent trip, I watched trout rising on the Kelvin in a park near the middle of Glasgow.

John

John, may we read your HM poem? I don't believe it is miserable!

Here it is, Susan. Judge for yourself:

Upon Westminster Bridge, 2011

You cannot see a thing, there`s so much fog,
Except the traffic jam in which I`m stuck
Behind a fume-emitting diesel truck
Which swathes me in a morning-gown of smog.

I see a double-decker bus behind.
It’s red but in this haze seems charcoal gray,
Slate-eyed, and ominous. On such a day
Even the Eye of London must feel blind.

Who knows what in this netherworld may lurk?
Who knows what beasts the slithering Thames may breed?
Now shapes materializing from the murk
Walk the pavement--Hades inmates, freed,
Or, conversely, commuters going to work.
Dull they are of soul who pass indeeed.

Not at all miserable. Very much enjoyed.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
12 dried out bonbons
11 savings coupons
10 colored clothespins
9 dated moleskins
8 plastic key rings
7 oven mittens
6 china kittens
5 tv guides!
4 purple thongs
3 wellies
2 jars of jam
And I’ve banned him from nearing my tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
12 loaves a rising
11 cakes a baking
10 croissants flaking
9 donuts rolling
8 fritters frying
7 crumpets browning
6 roasties roasting
5 spotted dicks!
4 crème brulees
3 tartlets
2 toasted buns
And my diet is sadly carb-free.

Modern fog in London. Nothing!
When John and I were young there were real London fogs. Like walking through filthy grey porridge. That disgusting taste reaching deep in your lungs. Couldn't see your nose in front of your face, hardly. Lorries looming from nowhere, and lurching on to the pavement at you.
But we were happy then.

Ee, but it were 'ard on t'bairns...

My 3rd version (this is getting addictive!):

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Twelve builders building,
Eleven plumbers plumbing,
Ten chippies chipping,
Nine sparkies sparking,
Eight roofers roofing,
Seven tilers tiling,
Six painters painting,
Five plas-ter-ers,
Four window fitters,
Three brickies,
Two apprentices
- and a house built by 77 men.

Oh Jayne, I like that one.

And Susan, I like the crumpets one. Crumpets, crumpet, I have an idea.