The rain starts around lunch and nobody minds. Lamplight sits in the wet like gold coins, every pavement turns into a mirror, and a telephone box blurs red through a rain-streaked window. Seventy-one watercolor-inspired illustrations follow that afternoon into evening: a bookshop lined floor to ceiling, Borough Market in bloom under the awnings, the amber of a pub window on a cold street.

A couple walks the Thames as the snow starts over Westminster. Riders canter under a tunnel of autumn trees. Afternoon tea arrives on a stand taller than the conversation. London has never once apologized for the weather, and after a day like this you stop wanting it to.