“Kyle’s always grabbing my tits,” said the young woman in the too-tight playsuit whose young son had just grabbed her tits.
“I know! Mine too, it really hurts,” said the older woman in the noteworthy trainers, gathering her low maintenance hair into a scrunchie.
“And it’s embarrassing,” added the younger one, pushing her unfashionable specs up the bridge of her nose.
The butcher was recommending a cut of pork loin to the thin-lipped elderly woman with the big black canvas shopping bag and frown. He waved a large knife over it in the display counter, “That’ll be lovely; tender as a woman’s heart!“ he said.
“I’ll have the sausages,” said the woman.
A boy of about six or seven years old stopped me in the street.
“Do you want to buy this for a pound?” he said, opening his palm to reveal the pebble I’d just seen him pick up from Mr Beever’s driveway.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A pebble” said the boy, rubbing it on his sleeve, “It’s shiny”.
“A pound for a pebble?” I said.
“It’s magic,” said the boy.