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.