The London that Charles Dickens knew.
As I walked down the sodden, dismal street, I glanced up to see the dark mass of clouds frowning upon me. The miserable sky was filled with unsightly, grey smog, which smelled like bonfires and factories. The dullness of the sky was unbearable. There were no birds happily tweeting and soaring from tree to tree, there were no insects flying around in the earthy air. There were just masses and masses of thick, grey, loitering cloud. The sun was non-existent, as nothing could interrupt the bold barrier of smog. The gloomy atmosphere was cold, and the piercing wind chilled like a phantom.
The streets were vicious and vile. In every direction, they were crowded paths of life, which were bustling with reeking bodies and grubby children. Hundreds of people were rushing around from place to place. Nobody was smiling even though it was three days before Christmas. All they had to look forward to was another long day of misery and, if they were lucky, an apple. I looked up to see a man sigh with unhappiness. His warm breath condensed in the crisp, bleak atmosphere. People passed me by, wearing nothing but torn, tattered rags. There were brown rags, black tatters, and stained pieces of material, wrapped tightly around the destitute people trying to keep warm. They were shivering and their decayed teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Their pale faces looked filthy, like unkempt animals. Their hair was vile and greasy. Their expressions showed a look of distress and their running noses were screwed up, presumably because of the repulsive stench of body odour, smog, and rotten sewage. There were also ample heaps of manure, which had been trodden into the dirty, soggy paths. It was sickening.