I was talking to Mrs Kaur in the shop. “You know her from number fourteen?” she said, “Well, every time she comes in here she’s different; one day she’s a goth, one day she’s like, normal, like, white, normal, and then yesterday she came in and she was a bloody muslim!”
On Union Street, Mr Coldwell was in his yard trying to spray an old push-bike yellow in the rain. He told me it was for the window display of the florist’s shop on the route of the Tour de France. He was well into his second can of paint but the rain was washing it off as fast as he could spray it on. “I should have waited for a finer day, it looks crap,” he explained. At the house next door, they have finished laying their new plastic lawn and have now embellished it; in one corner stands a plastic statuette of mole wearing a miner’s helmet and, in another, a shiny fake plastic dog turd.
In the road, the magpie was squawking hysterically and dive-bombing the fat black cat which eventually hid underneath a Suzuki Vitara for cover.
Two cars down from the Vitara, the young mum was struggling to load baby equipment around the large custom built speaker system in the boot of the new VW Polo.
A bit further down again, next to the children's playground that the children never play on, a man with a good two-thirds of his arse showing was mending his old Transit Connect. "Can I borrow your drill, Trevor?" he shouted to the man drinking beer in his front garden, "You cheeky bastard!" the man shouted back.