The old man with the bag-4-life and the beige anorak didn’t have his hair styled in an incongruous mohican, it was the shadow cast by the lamp post across his bald head by the low winter sun.
The sky blew from black to blue and back again: leaves, jackdaws, Tesco bags, starlings and fieldfares windswept under brief rainbows.
All morning, the police helicopter has been hovering above Walpole Road where armed police are shouting at a man in a T-shirt decorated with distressed appliqué text.
At the other end of the road, the young woman with the big afro who was reading a psychology text book was having a new settee delivered by two fat men who called her ‘Darling’ a lot and wore black satin darts-player shirts, elaborate tattoos, shiny grey slacks and light tan, chisel-toe faux crocodile shoes.
A couple of houses up again, a man with a strong Eastern European accent explained from an upstairs window why he couldn’t open his front door, “I bought a couch. It is too big. I can’t open the door.”
The contents of the next house had been dumped in the miry puddles in the front garden: a pair of Ugg boots, a hi-fi system, a two-foot tall vase, an upside-down settee ...I parked-up next to an old discarded boat and drank coffee from a flask while a man smoking weed with his coat only half on, took his small daughter to the newsagent in her reindeer onesie.