Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip.

Later that afternoon, we were caught in the body of a long long jam; a tail back that wound its way beyond a round-a-bout behind us, and down a hill in front, rear break lights flashing secret code. At the bottom were clusters of bright yellow jackets, and a policeman's poker face, his arms flagging the traffic in the opposite direction, back the way we came. The river had burst. A deep sheet of water blocked the main thoroughfare into town. A large hosepipe was failing. Sandbags were being piled against doors. Frantic. Desperate. Another storm predicted the following day... Winter's ruin.

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The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth

25hours Hotel, Vienna