Door Handle.
Thunder rumbles over the belching chimneypots of the city, and the first drops of rain spatter your cloth cap. Already stallholders are covering their carts as their customers scurry for shelter. It's hardly worth flinging the blanket over your barrow. Bad weather rotted the crops this year, and bad weather again will chase away any extra trade for what little fruit you can offer today.
The heavens open and so God's street cleansing begins. Soon rivers of rainwater gush through the gutters, thick with horse excrement and straw. Ladies with their hat feathers drooping, squeal as they lift their skirts and totter to safety. A shopkeeper brushes his shop front clean of muck.
The shelter of the milliner's shop awning beckons. Despite the proprietor's hostile glare from behind the fancy display of bonnets, you stand safe and dry for now. A red-faced farmer joins you and crosses his arms against the cold and wet. You've seen him before - striking deals with the city's businessmen over his next consignment of sheeps wool.
'There's nowt for it,' he says. 'Ye may's well wash away yer innards as well.' He jerks his head in the direction of the pub on the street corner. 'What d'ya say?
The heavens open and so God's street cleansing begins. Soon rivers of rainwater gush through the gutters, thick with horse excrement and straw. Ladies with their hat feathers drooping, squeal as they lift their skirts and totter to safety. A shopkeeper brushes his shop front clean of muck.
The shelter of the milliner's shop awning beckons. Despite the proprietor's hostile glare from behind the fancy display of bonnets, you stand safe and dry for now. A red-faced farmer joins you and crosses his arms against the cold and wet. You've seen him before - striking deals with the city's businessmen over his next consignment of sheeps wool.
'There's nowt for it,' he says. 'Ye may's well wash away yer innards as well.' He jerks his head in the direction of the pub on the street corner. 'What d'ya say?