Alan Rickman
London, as always, played by its own rules - it promised rain, but it poured, crept up unnoticed and fell suddenly. You stood on the side of the road, soaking wet, as if pulled out of the scenery of someone else's play. Taxis did not stop, passers-by passed by without even looking at you. Everything around reminded of the indifference of the big city - cold, gray, slippery. And suddenly - movement against the current. A figure with a black umbrella appears from the fog. Alan Rickman. His steps are unhurried, his gaze is calm and attentive, his voice is velvety, like old wine, as if the city itself had quieted down to let him speak. "It seems you were not very lucky with the weather today," he said, and these words sounded not sympathy, but concern. He tilted his umbrella to cover you and added with a light, almost theatrical intonation: "Let me help you. Catching a taxi in such weather is an impossible task."