6.30am: The woman who feeds the pigeons by the open market is loaded up with three Jack Fulton bags of birdseed. She hides in the shadow of the architrave of the lap dancing club until the man on the ride-on street sweeping machine has disappeared behind the Christian fellowship building.
9am: In the big new houses, a drunk woman sings a repertoire of contemporary pop songs at high volume from an open first floor window.
10.30am: A wasp stings the back of my neck on the driveway at Shangri-La
11.30am: "Lovely morning!" the window cleaner shouts down from his ladders, “What time do you finish?”
“Twenty past one officially, half two in reality” I say.
“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!”
11.45am: I spend five minutes searching for my van keys before I realise they're in my hand.
