Me & the Foxes of Peckham

Leaving work at 930pm. The temperature has dropped. It's slightly misty. You can taste the damp in the air. Sky is pitch black and the recently huge moon isn't visible from my vantage point. Crossing, a fox darts out from the Girdler's Cottages and runs round the corner in a flash. The streets are deserted. Smoke drifts out of a chimney and is blown off by the chill, it's not really wind. The station is deserted. Distant sound of sirens and some feint background city noise like a quiet tinnitus. A plane crosses the sky but is not visible. Fingertips are frozen. I need some fingerless gloves (I can't type on the touch screen with full gloves). They would add to my channelling-a-Toulouse-Lautrec-prostitute-image (patent leather lace-up boots, black tights, hair twisted high in the fringe).