The man opposite me on the bus kept gesturing towards me and saying "This postman, he is lost" in a fake Eastern European accent. After a while his companion joined in too: "These sex toys are not for me, the brothel is not open yet" he said, also in a fake Eastern European accent. They both found this funny.
On the pavement below the pub chalkboard advertising a concert by a band called Rockweiler, there is a pillow in a clean white case.
At the houses where they have removed the Yorkstone flags from the paths and replaced them with old Nurishment drink cans, empty Space Raiders/Jelly-Tots/Tesco bags, extrusions of expanding foam, splinters of 4x2 timber, fake patent snakeskin handbags with broken handles, pairs of black-tracksuit-bottoms-with-white-bits-on, faded-plastic children's ride-on cars with broken wheels, milk cartons, dog shit, old carpet grip-rods and empty lager cans, I disturbed a would-be burglar. He ran away up the cobbles wearing black tracksuit bottoms with white trim and his hood up.
The Polish man at No.131 who gets all the parcels has got some new BMW slippers.
I counted seventeen separate piles of dog shit in the six square metres of concreted-over yard at number eighty-seven. Then, I rounded the corner to find the man with the shaved head who lives at number eighty-one pissing in the middle of the street outside his house while his partner struggled to get their toddler down the front steps in a pushchair.
Later, as I lifted open the broken gate of the house with "PRIVT NO PARKING PLS" written on it in foot high white letters, the front door opened suddenly and someone hurled two fully loaded nappy bags roughly in the direction of the overflowing wheely bins on the pavement. They missed me—and the bins—by about a metre.