Fog, fog, fog

And more fog.
All day!
You could hardly see your hand in front of your face.
Definitely time to dig out the winter hats.
(This is not a poem, by the way.
It's prose in short lines.
You can tell as it has no rhythm or cadence whatsoever.)
It's also a late emergency blip for a very dull day.
(With thanks to Peter Pointer and Johnny Long, who didn't like the hats but obliged me by wearing them for my blip.)