The skies over London were overcast. A few raindrops started to fall over Kensington. Ten minutes later, they had turned into an absolute downpour.
“Georges, my dear, if we don’t want Dickens to get wet, we ought to take a taxi,” declared Margaret, stroking her dog.
“Margaret, my dear, that won’t be easy in this rain. Oh, here comes one now!” cried Georges, throwing out his arm to hail the cab.

Seeing them at the last minute, the driver of the black cab tried to brake, but one of his wheels went into an enormous pothole full of water and soaked them.
“Oh!” Georges managed to mutter.

He opened the door and, always the gentleman, let his wife get in first with Dickens, both drenched to the bone.
“Where to, then?” asked the cabbie.
“The British Museum, please,” Georges responded, unflappable, as a trickle of water fell from his nose. “Margaret, my dear, they’ve got an excellent Turner exhibition on, that great painter of storms and tempests. I think we’ll be in the perfect mood for it,” he added, with a stiff upper lip.