5.30am: A young woman in a frock coat shouts to me from across the street, “Postman Pat! My daughter hates you!”
“It’s like a bottle for you isn’t it lad? Mind how you go.” says the old man in the cardigan and the scarf when I almost lose my footing on an icy pavement.
I see Rod Singleton in a bobble hat, chipping ice from his driveway with a spade. He says the weathermen are talking out of their fucking arses when they tell us it’s going to get warmer next week.
“Normally he cleans that path; he’s a taxi driver. It’s shocking is that for his wife”, says the man who looks a bit like he’s from the 1970s when I slip over on his neighbour’s path.
“I’ve lived here for forty year and I’ve never seen a single person come down here with a bit of salt. It’s disgusting!” says the elderly man with the combover and the zip-up rib-knit raglan cardigan with suede elbow patches.
A woman in a big black coat rounds the corner and crashes her buggy into my ankles. She doesn’t say anything or even look up, she just reverses a bit and goes around me.
A tall, slim woman in her mid-forties with a dyed black bob, knee-length boots, and skinny jeans walks up Moor End Road past a large snow sculpture of a cock and some balls. Arms outstretched, face raised up towards the sky and eyes shut tight, she sings along loudly to Lady Gaga on her mp3 player.