Stream of Consciousness in a Time of Drought

"The relationship of humankind and it's sewers may not be the stuff of romance". 

I thought of this as the opening sentence of a tour de force Regency romp, but then again, maybe not. A quick masochistic burst of Bonkers TV  would  soon put me straight, and so it  was, when a presenter found themselves reporting from a factory producing deafening noise. The poor women had to shout so loudly to overcome the background racket that she sounded more like a specialist sports presenter. Real competition.

Later at my regular teashop, one of the more voluble patrons was just launching into a political tirade when a biscuit crumb caught in his throat. Not wishing to give any opportunity to his fellows, the man pressed on - even though his voice deteriorated into a painful warbling whine, and his face alternated between purple and white like a Martian traffic light. The cafe owner's finger hovered over her phone's 999 button...

As I was sitting in a corner between two windows, the weird reflections of those approaching along the street behind me took the form of ghostly humanoid shapes. For a moment I experienced the sort of spectral, netherworld effects often described by spiritualists or navigators of the Astral plane. A bit like old-fashioned neutral newsreaders haunting the studio of breakfast TV, tickling the presenters half way through their VDU reading.

Well, something has to account for all their errors.

A fry up fog surrounded me, and I left. Back cold in the wind and front hot in the sun.