On my way into work at 5.30am, I passed a house from which the theme tune from the TV show Countdown was blaring out into the street. A police helicopter was hovering directly overhead.
A colleague told me he'd been embarrassed the other day while delivering a package to a sex shop on his round; he'd tripped up a step and knocked over a stand of dildos.
At the house with the decorative Father Christmas and snowman figurine in the window, I handed the owner, an elderly man dressed almost entirely in a single hue of beige (he would possibly have looked naked from a distance ) a parcel. He shouted to me above the noise of his dog barking from behind the gate, "Don't worry," he said, "she's all this..." and he made a C-shaped gesture with his right hand, opening and closing his thumb and fingers to signify talking. "Just like all women" he added with a wink.
I knocked at the door of the house in Mill Street where the owner always jokes that his parcels are consignments of heroin. Littering the short garden path, I counted twenty-nine cigarette butts, fifty-seven KFC salt sachets (some opened and some unopened), a KFC vinegar sachet (unopened), a drinking straw and an empty litre and a half bottle of Fanta. There was also a large quantity of white feathers – far too many to count.
While using the urinal in the toilets on the first floor of the post office, I glanced out of the open window and noticed a man's shoe on top of the security hut at the main entrance. It's one of those chisel-toe slip-ons with a three-quarter inch heel that the eastern European men down at the Grove often couple with a bootleg jean.