In her garden on Hart Street, an old woman in a dressing gown empties a jug of custard onto her borders.
A young man with his hand down the front of his trousers and a bloody nose is talking to a man in a snapback cap, “Drop them two off,” he says, gesturing to two young women with low-cut tops and large breasts in the back of a P-reg’ VW Golf, “then we’ll go into town and get wired”.
Later, in the park, I see another man with a bloody nose. He’s talking to a tree.
A squirrel carries a Wagon Wheel (the chocolate kind) across Wren Street.
