Ok (*takes deep breath*)... here's a snippet from my current WIP. Setting is London, 1598.
I bent to retrieve a blanket from the floor, picked up a mug from the bedside cabinet and tiptoed to the open window. Outside, at the end of the narrow alley, the river congealed against a rotting, slime-encrusted jetty, a flat, muted band resisting the light of the coming sun. It was the colour of the pewter mug I held. The pre-dawn air was crisp for June, and I shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around my naked shoulders. The stink of the day had not yet started to build, but it was there as always, the stench of rot, putrescence and raw sewage that lingered in the nose and throat, a reminder that soon enough, within an hour or so, it would once again rule the city.
I glanced over my shoulder as a loud fart issued from the man on the bed. I hoped he was still asleep. A man of God, this one, a travelling priest, perhaps even a papist. Not that it mattered. They are all the same in the end. They all want the same thing. I turned back to the window and took a large swig of ale from the mug. I swilled it in my mouth for several long seconds then, satisfied I had cleansed every last trace of him, leaned out of the window, hawked up a wad of phlegm for good measure, and spat the whole wet, congealed mess into the street below.