In the office, Adam was telling Nathan about the curries he'd eaten over the weekend:
"Balti Friday night, Pathia Saturday night and on Sunday I went round to a mate's house and we had a nice Rogan Josh. Not a bad weekend."
“Blimey, I bet you're back on the fruit now! Mind you, I suppose they're not too bad for you, curries, are they?" Said Nathan.
"Depends what you fire in with ‘em, doesn't it kid?" said Adam without looking up from his work. He was standing on a box slotting letters into the top row of his frame (he's not particularly short but he says it makes his arm ache otherwise).
On my way out to my delivery, I saw a red kite (the bird kind) drifting along the tree line above the road.
A woman with a picture of an alien on her sweatshirt was walking her two boxer dogs. As I approached, the dogs started snarling and barking at me. Without looking up, the woman shouted "Shut up! It's a man, not a martian!"
I slipped on a flight of greasy green yorkstone steps. I managed to grab the railing and ended up at the bottom, lying on my back with my feet on the patio. I was slightly winded but hadn’t done any serious damage. I told the owner about it. "Are they slippy?" he said and handed me a mis-delivered letter from the day before.
At the sheltered housing on the estate, an old woman with a grey perm, faded blue anorak and american tan tights was putting out her wheelie bin. It was decorated with a large stripy orange and green sticker that said Pimp My Bin in a graffiti style font.
On my way down to the farm, I saw a fresh looking blue tit corpse in the middle of the lane. On my way back up five minutes later, it had gone.
Someone has written Retard in the dirt on the side of old Mr Richardson's new Honda CR-V.
A rabbit ran across the road in front of me in exactly the same place as it had the day before.
My van door broke and I mended it with some red elastic bands.