Squeaky falling roll-up door of the tavern, no one could imagine that it was falling forever. It wasn’t a holiday shutdown, step into the past of a sum of moments that would not return to coincide with the present. That the lived experience is something that happens to us at every step and always suddenly pass to the past. It is known. But not it is disturbing that, with a simple punto y aparte, disappear for no return characters as the plump Grason Captain Ruddy Doris or malcarado Mourinho and the self-absorbed Guardiola; or Juanita death with his Scythe to the shoulder and his Sevillian costume; or speaker Tin Lotina trapped in the itinerant backpack of an indignant Red Riding Hood; or the disconsolate Valdano sacked and gagged by a President relegated to Butler in his own House; or the devil himself and my sweet Amanda, invisible mother of a child of unknown parents and swastikas on the buttocks. All they and others fictional, or not so much, it had vanished swallowed up by London fog at the height of the sinister black friars bridge. Source of the news:: Storm surge