After a drive down to the south of Surrey last
Saturday I feel I can claim a high place among authorities on driiing in fog. It was certainly the worst drive of its kind I have ever experienced, and I am glad to find my impressions confirmed by the A.A., who say they can remember nothing worse. To get lost in the Mall may seem difficult, but the hard fact remains that I found I had turned into Birdcage Walk and was crawling towards Parliament Square when I thought I was crawling past Buckingham Palace towards Victoria. " Visibility nil," I imagine, always goes a trifle beyond the facts; though I was frequently on the point of running into the backs of stationary vehicles I always saw their back lights just in time. And my passenger—a passenger (by preference a wife) on such occasions is indispensable—could always just see the kerb of the near-side pavement and keep me edging along it. How unaccompanied drivers managed I fail to conceive. And then, about twenty miles out, came first gradual light and then bright sunshine. Serviceable material for a sermon here.
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