There's a copy of The Watchtower magazine pinned to the front door of one of the back-to-backs. Someone has scrawled across Jesus' face in biro "NOT INTERESTED, ONE WORD FREE WILL!"[sic].
As we watched the police moving the drunks along in the park, Michael told me he'd once seen a man staggering down the street with a bottle in his hand and another two in the pockets of his coat. He said he'd seen the man's expression turn from horror to relief as the bottle in his hand had slipped onto the floor but hadn't broken. But then, as he'd bent down to pick it up, the bottles from his pockets had fallen out and smashed all over the pavement and his expression had turned to one of bewildered anguish.
The swallows were swooping after the flies that buzzed around the cow shit on the track down to the farm. I pulled up at the house and got out. The air was fetid and still, hung thick with the stench of pig shit. A woman with a grey bob and plastic rimmed glasses opened the door. She winced and said "Oh! What a foul smell!" Then, with one hand over her nose she grabbed the parcel from me and shut the door behind her without saying goodbye.
The man who is brewing beer in his garden and doesn't wear a shirt said hello.
I stood on a dead mouse and, even after several minutes of trying, couldn't get the worst of it out from between the treads of my shoes.