It’s been windy today; the bird shit stained section of the road below the canopy of the trees at the entrance to the estate, was completely covered by leaves.
A woman with Cosmic Purple hair and a boat neck Breton shirt was walking a black cat on a lead around the perimeter of her garden. She stretched out her left hand for support against the gable wall as she negotiated the narrow gravel path which was lined on both sides with a variety of cat statuettes.
An elderly woman with a nicotine yellow perm and a purple anorak passed me. She was conducting a loud conversation with a man in a beanie hat and an enormous jumper – he was so large that he waddled as he walked:
‘Well, he’s pissing in the bed’, said the man.
‘Well, that’s not good’, said the woman.
‘Well, he can’t get out can he?’
‘Well, can’t they give him a bed pan?’
‘Well, he can’t feel his legs, can he?’
‘Well, he needs a catheter, doesn’t he? Will they not give him a catheter?’
'Well, they won’t. They say he can get out of bed but he just doesn’t want to.’
There are yard brushes leant against unnecessary porches and charity bags containing mainly jigsaws on the driveways. Starlings attempt a murmuration and harassed lapwings stalk worms. A woman in a rusty coloured fleece jacket showed me the cut on her thumb. ‘I’ve knackered my hand unblocking the drain’, she says, ‘That’s what happens when you don’t have a man about’.