The woman who feeds the pigeons by the open market was loaded up with three Jack Fulton bags of birdseed. She hid in the shadow of the architrave in the doorway of the lap dancing club until the man on the ride-on street sweeping machine had disappeared behind The Christian Fellowship building.
In the big new houses at Stile village, a drunk sounding woman was singing a repertoire of contemporary pop songs at high volume from an open first floor window.
On the driveway at Shangri-La, I was stung by a wasp on the back of my neck.
A window cleaner shouted down from his ladders “Lovely morning!”
“What time do you finish?”
“Twenty-past-one, officially. Half-two in reality.” I said.
“Aye, them at t’ bottom do more and more so’s them at t’ top can do less and less. It’s always been the way, lad. Lovely morning though. Keep smiling.”
I spent five minutes searching for my van keys before I realised they were in my hand.