The illuminated bollard in the middle of St James Road has been run over again. And, at the junction – by the gay bar where the upside-down shopping trolley has been on the pavement all week – the traffic lights were stuck on red.
On the bus, I sat next to the old woman who was on her way to the cemetery. She was holding a single red rose. Behind us, a group school girls were discussing which they preferred, “eating or drinking”. They unanimously agreed that drinking was definitely the best.
At the house that should be number 13 but is number 11a instead, the man with the big overcoat that restricts his movement, reversed his new car into a gate post. I judged he might not be in the mood to deal with my enquiry, so I pressed the doorbell and then waited as it made a protracted series of notes of seemingly random tone, length and volume. Eventually a woman with a tea towel slung over her shoulder answered. She apologised; “Sorry about the bell, love. I washed it last night and it’s not been right since.”