The man opposite me on the bus keeps gesturing towards me and saying "This postman, he is lost" in a fake eastern European accent. After a while his companion joins in too: "These sex toys are not for me, the brothel is not open yet" he says, also in a fake eastern European accent. They both find this amusing.
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 count seventeen piles of dog shit in the six square metres of concreted over yard at No.87 then I round the corner to find the man with the shaved head who lives at No.81 pissing in the middle of the street outside his house while his partner struggles to get their toddler down the front steps in a pushchair.
As I lift open the broken gate of the house with PRIVT NO PARKING PLS written on it in foot high white letters, the front door opens suddenly and someone hurls two fully loaded nappy bags roughly in the direction of the overflowing wheely bins on the pavement. They miss me and the bins by about a metre.