The balloon was beginning to frustrate him. Its pull grew increasingly larger as the wind picked up. His coat had seen better days as well, drenched by the westerly showers that this particular region was known for. It had often protected him from the brash environment of the underground, not that it ever rained there. If it did, it would have truly been the most miserable place on earth, but luckily for him, British transport had the tendency of being waterproof. The balloon overhead wavered while he remained fixed in his position, eager to prove the naysayers wrong. He could feel the blood slowly start to fall away from his hand, the lack of dexterity pointed out by the marching of ants down one side of his arm. He’d always hated pin and needles, early childhood memories filled with the ongoing fear of sitting still for too long. Clinging onto this great red floating object in the sky had begun to become more than a physical nuisance.