Saturday, 20 July 2013
The small grey pony is pulling the large brown pony’s mane and tail. Every so often, the brown one retaliates but it only puts the grey off for a few seconds before it starts again. They’ve been at it for at least twenty minutes. The butterflies are squabbling too (Are they squabbling, or are they procreating?)
Earlier, after I’d set off a chain of barking dogs by walking up Fairfield Rise, I passed the large woman in the sunglasses, vest top and tattoos. She was parked-up in a silver Astra making a loud phone call: “Gary only came out for a smidgeon, then he’s got back inside the house!”
A man and his grandson were having a tetchy argument as they buffed opposite alloys of a five year old Ford Fiesta. “Why do you keep saying that when you know it’s not true?” repeated the grandson for the third time.
In the sticks, old men in flat caps and short-sleeved khaki shirts drive immaculate ten year old saloons round the lanes, their wing mirrors thrashing through overgrown leylandii, dead flies accumulating on the plastic remembrance day poppies cable-tied to their radiator grills. There is honeysuckle everywhere.
Shadows are strong, the road is sticky and the weeds on the verges have turned to straw. Shiny men wearing nothing but shorts and trainers make busy noises. Past the derelict asylum and the road cone with the Greggs bag stuffed into the top, I knocked my hat off on a washing line next to the parked milliner's van. The man at the bus stop, who was riding so low that his pubeless cock cleavage was clearly visible, laughed out loud.
Saturday, 6 July 2013
The short but substantial man with the unruly hair, the sun visor, T-shirt, cargo shorts—keys attached to belt—and steel toe-capped boots said “Hello, Kevin” as I passed. He was propping an old glass panelled front door up against the cellar doorway of the Working Men’s Club. I’ve got no idea how he knew my name.
On the edge of the moor, at the end-terrace with the imitation stone grotesques on the garden wall, the imitation leaded lights in the windows and the imitation wood front door, Mrs Dyson’s bathrobe had blown from the rotary washing line, over the wall and onto the windscreen of the red Ferrari 348 that was parked in the road.
Around the corner, an indiscrete dope deal was taking place; a young man wearing a snapback baseball cap had double parked his hatchback next to another young man wearing a snapback baseball cap in a different hatchback. They began exchanging small packages through adjacent windows. After a couple of minutes, the double parked young-man-in-a-baseball-cap pulled up to the kerb, got out of his hatchback and got into the other man’s passenger seat where the two of them smoked a very strong smelling joint together.
I was knocking at the door of a house on Kinder Avenue when a large woman with a big grey overgrown bob, old fashioned tortoiseshell glasses, an airforce blue overcoat (in 25ºC), American Tan tights and a brand new pair of electric pink Nike trainers shouted from the garden next door that there was nobody in. She said “I know they’ll be home around teatime because that’s their cat”, and she pointed to a ginger and white cat on the other side of the road.