The sun has been shining. People are squinting their eyes and shielding the screens of their phones at bus stops. It's hot, I counted seventy-three discarded drinks containers on my way into work this morning. An average of one every thirty-four meters.
Someone has written “HeRB” on the Church Street post box.
The milkman's two young assistants were talking as they waited on the kerb for the van.
“She asked for nine semi, I put twelve in and now she wants thirteen” said the short chubby white one.
“Why?” asked the short chubby black one.
“Because she’s a greedy bitch” said the white one.
I saw a man with a green Atari T-shirt drop the cardboard packaging from his toy machine gun onto the pavement by the bench at the corner of John William Street—where the woman with the short skirt used to feed the pigeons.
Inside the motorcycle showrooms, a sales assistant was recommending a bike cleaning product to a customer.
"We had a leak from a can of it a while back and when we'd cleaned it up the floor was sparkling—white as snow. Amazing stuff!”
"I think I'd better get some of that then" said the customer.
