White Clouds                              

                                                                                                            by 

                                                                                                               Irene & Richard Williams 

The Strand could be a severely frenetic place, even back in those days.  Carriages flew 

in all directions, their horses dissipating white clouds of steam into the somewhat 

frosty November air.  People hurried, porters and errand boys bustled.  A policeman 

on foot patrol (as most did in those days) was single handedly trying to control both 

the horse drawn carriage and the new menace of private, petrol driven locomotion that 

chugged and spluttered, emitting regular exhaust explosions like gun shots to add a 

certain unease to this most sober of days.  A newspaper seller positioned  his 

advertising board by a stall outside Victoria Station. 

The headline ran, Lloyd George pays tribute to fallen of The Somme. 

Near the station stood Lyon’s Corner House.  The grand old lady was now one of the 

social hubs of London, or so it would proudly have you believe. 

Inside those famous glass portals, through the foyer and into the tea rooms, one could 

learn much about the subtle cut and thrust of life in this most major of new century 

European cities.  The characters, governed by convention, the professional pride, the 

bustle and snap.  In the foyer near the glass entrance, behind the counter of a liquor 

and chocolates stall, one young Londoner was enjoying herself. 

Daisy was joking with the customers, returning the cheeky comments of heckling