After the last Summer of Love flower is plucked, the Winter Plague of Darkness descends upon the Earth for forty days and forty nights. Demonic seahorses of smog dance upon the summit of Archway Hill, down between the metallic limbs of the monster Suicide Bridge, down the slope and gallop into your smarting cheeks exposed at the bus-stop.
London. Christmas Term lately over, and the Mormon Bishop dispensing judgment from his palatial deep-piled office (the chapel hiding in the giant crack on the side of Archway hill). Implacable January weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had newly retired from the face of the Earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard over the lip of Archway Hill. Smoke lowering from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun.
Bones berattled, the boy-author deep-frosting by the stone bus stop, Book of Mormon huddled from the impending storm, yet as you squint closer you swear you detect the tint of a miniature Greek god about the way this stoic brave Adonis fronts the frightening monster Smog. The shaker author overshadowed by a mother aglow with the red-cheeked satisfaction of the Lard’s gospel and radiating a high heat through the knotted strands of a thick black coat and the thatched mat of a sixties’ beehive of black.
Waiting an eternity, waiting for the ghost of a Big Red Bus to rumble over the Hill like a modern Titanic ploughing through the ice-thick smog and sludging to the rescue. And your eyes water and wait for the thick black limbs of the giant spider Suicide Bridge to emerge for a moment between the swirling angry seahorses of smog: for you are waiting for the great and glorious day of the Lard when like a second coming a lone, dark lump of humanity will with clarity of vision clutch the iron-rod halfway across the bridge and peer down at the screaming merciless stream of traffic racing to be some other place and not be trapped like a musical chair when Life stops with a faint thud and splatter of teeth, brain, blood, muscle and bone.
Dogs — made mad perhaps with the mush of religion indistinguishable in the mire — mooch and sniff like missionaries the mud-thick streets. And huddled like three witches from Macbeth over the cauldron of a half-collapsed cardboard box, you detect the horror-show of three tramps, beards bowed and praying before the grotesque miniature shrine of the devil’s olde three-card-trick.
Across the great divide of dual-stream traffic, above the crack’d and crook’d pavement slabs, hovers a nun clad in deep satanic robes of black, a sinister sister Mary Poppins, down the slope and vanishing from the face of Earth inside a veil of smog, a vile abomination to the history of cinema and the memory of the dark side of north London.
And from the angry portal of a red doorway staggers a bare-chested man, burning bush of black, bewailing the curse of Life perhaps, holding aloft a broken bottle to heaven like a holy challis, then stands and stares as if transfixed to a pillar of salt at the slogging traffic.
The plague of smog needle-sharp slips inside the soft linings of the nose like nuclear fall-out and stirs inside the lungs a loose reservoir of mucus, and the brain swollen inside the skull stings like the suck of a wasp, and the fingers throb with pain and pulsate with premature rigor-mortis.
Waiting and waiting and when the last drops of Life are falling through the pavement cracks in big pearly blobs you rumble the beast of a Big Red Bus bustling and bullying to the brink of Archway Hill — at first a faint phantom of red, two broken beams of yellow war-time search-lights, faces smeared against the greasy glass of the upper deck, a moving Tower of Babel illuminated with the last bulbs of Christmas, as high as Heaven the Big Red Bus screaming and sliding to a halt on the slippery slope of black ice.
You clamber the platform and grasp the rust-ice chrome pole burning the skin of your palm, and clock the conductor frozen and disinterested like a waxwork dummy, the wheels (on the bus go round and round) rumbling under your feet; and you scramble the spiral staircase on mother’s coat-tails, steel-tipped steps as big as concrete blocks coated with dog-ends and blobs of spit that slip and squish beneath the soles of your sodden sandals, and safely to the top you emerge into a sea of yellow smoke and steaming sweat, a disjointed devil’s choir of loud angry voices, and shuffle along the aisle bumping legs and bags and babies, and slump into your customary seat at the front, your pink finger tracing rude shapes on the grime-grey glass, you peer with shock and awe at an unfriendly world and the angry smog smothering babies in prams, and controlling the cold chrome rail with both hands steering from the cockpit of a Spitfire.
Fired with the spirit of the Lard and fresh from the infection of a sixties’ Mormon Sunday School lesson, mother’s cheeks glow a rose-glory-red: pupils pupate and sparkle like supernova diamonds of the highest ecstasy, soft pit-a-pump steps as if walking on water, the blood-red smile plumps, and a sudden fear overwhelms your unformed mind of the high danger that mother-dear might throw hard her smack-palms to Heaven, cry Hallelujah! — Praise the Lard! Praise the fucking Lard! — let me be consumed with the blood of baby Jesus! — and sing the love of the Lard to the unsuspecting and unsolicited people of the top deck of bus 279.
For every Sunday morning you bear witness to mother’s soul enflamed with high passion and rapture to the addictive pull of an orgy of object lessons, and with eyeballs as big as flying saucers, and a strange unworldly shine, you feel the joy of being blessed with the lesson of a deck of cards — for the good Lard himself, yeah, brethren and sisters, might not Lard baby Jesus be likened to the Ace of Space? The Mormon (joker’s wild) prophet (Herr Stompenführer Joseph) likened by the sheeping flock to the King of Spades. And perched upon the throne of Solomon at the front (for, lad, is not Bishop Mengele the most important man in your life, and don’t you forget it.) the man with a divine duty to frown unceasingly, yeah, until the fourth generation and beyond, likened to the Jack of Spades ... And you know full spanking well with your seven-year-old sense of fully matured cynicism that the shuffling of so underhand an analogy is hardly appropriate for an arch-right-thinking Sunday School lesson: but, senses benumbed, finally, after thirty-nine bus-stops with the screech of rubber and metal and glass on ice, you heroically decline to puncture the rapture and rhapsody of mother’s happiest moment regurgitated over Sunday dinners again and again and again to the ends of time: fresh, conveyer-belt, pink-hollow-cheeked missionary-innocents gushing and slobbering with sacrificial offerings of Sunday crucified chicken, (no seasoning and no salt of the Earth), no escape — count them, come back, children, for the last time, where are you? — with the orgasmic enthusiasm of a young lover, mother delivers this fresh analogy for the first time, for the next fifty years for ever rehearsed, Sunday dinner rehashed.
Suicide faithful friend from the grave an honourable option against the suckered mother-infected misted glass at a slate-grey stale brutalist world: brother, low deep inside the membraned sac the last semblance of soul is dead, and the sense of dread — deep dread — drenches your sensitive heart — with a strange upsurging of rebellion, that now — now — is the wrong time and place — Not now, dear, for Heaven’s sake — behave — Life has tricked you with the cruellest deceit, and you should never have left with your back turned to the picture show and the Cave of the Unborn. For every hour of every day your old familiar friend Despair — will fuck you, fuck you — will dig deeper the longing to be far away from this wasteland of withered analogies, from the waking of devilish depression, and dark deep downright dire dreary dread of a grey unfriendly world of walking dead.

Don't know what this is, but I like it! You have a gift for description, very visual, I could see and feel it all. I hope you finally escaped that grim grey smog world.