Mr Briggs intercepted me for his mail, "You'll be getting sunburnt with no cap on," he said.
"I'm living on the edge" I said.
"Oh," he said, and he drove away, spinning the wheels of his Bedford Rascal in dust by the five bar gate.
At no.20 they have pinned a copy of The Watchtower magazine to their front door. 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. 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 completely 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 quickly 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.