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 Stonehill Lane, past the large woman in the sunglasses, vest top and tattoos who was parked-up in a silver Astra to make a loud phone call – “Gary only came out for a smidgeon, then he’s got back inside the house!” – I saw a man and his grandson 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.