Ftrain, by Paul Ford

The wind kicked me around a bit, reddening my nose and freezing my lips, sometimes prying open my mouth and filling my cheeks, like an Aeolus in reverse. Especially over the Wmsbg bridge, where I moved up the slope at a crawl. Once a breeze picked up behind me and my scarf shot straight out perpendicular from my chest, hovering in space, until with a flourish I realized later to have Edwardian characteristics (although I'd need cane and cape to complete it) I whipped the scarf around my back and cocked my chin. The scarf is a recent gift, blue, woolen, scratchy, Irish, a luxury item intended to invoke the bearded dignity of poor seaside laborers. With it and a black woolen cap I look like a worker.