The woman with the bit of cake on her face looked perplexed at the pair of boxing gloves in the road. It was raining hard, occasionally sleeting, and the deluged streets danced in reflected light.
I crossed to the street that was lined with empty pizza boxes, food tins, cooking sauce jars, energy drink cans, navy blue underpants, cerise pink shoes with missing heels, rolls of sodden carpet, mattresses, children's plastic ride-on toys, a sofa, broken glass, an empty satnav box, and a massive burst-open bag of aggregate. Near the top, at one of the houses where they have sold all the stone flags from the yard and replaced them with dog shit, the woman with the tattoos and the bath robe said, ‘Ooo, it’s snowing!’
‘I know’, I said.
‘I take it you don’t like snow’.
‘No, not really, it’s a bit inconvenient’.
‘Haha! I do’, she said, as she closed the door and disappeared back inside.
Next door, the stocky terrier on the windowsill was on its hind legs, pulling down the curtains, its cock flopping from side to side as it scrabbled its front paws against the glass, trying to get a better purchase.
Later, it was still raining when I knocked at the house with the crumbling concrete driveway to tell the owner that the driver’s door of the S-Class Mercedes saloon with the low profile tyres, was wide open. A man in his late-twenties answered. He wore a meticulously manicured beard, three-quarter length tracksuit pants, flip-flops and a T-shirt. ‘Yeah,' he said with a laugh, 'I got to take it to the scrappers. Cheers, mate’.