A funfair has set up in the park behind the row of big Dolly Mixture holly bushes. I walk past behind two other men in high-vis vests. “Do you know that guy up Deighton with one arm?” “Stumpy?” “Aye, that’s him, Stumpy...”
In town, I pass a noisy lock-in at the bar under the railway arches: "Setting the new standard of late night drinking culture."
I drive out into the country, where nightclub moguls and ex-football professionals have built big houses as high up the panoramic ridge as possible. They compete for the stripiest lawns, the most striking life-sized Buddhas, the shiniest black 4x4s, the most unorthodox use of decorative gravels and spars etc.
Mr Briggs pulls up in an old Toyota Yaris. “I’ve just taxed this: £60. Just insured it: £250.” That’s all he says. And then he drives away again.
In the village, this year’s flying ant day is underway and the builders are listening to heavy metal from the 1980s on a paint-spattered radio.
Back in town, a man with a chin-strap beard pops up from behind the fence of the residential care home. “Hello, mate. Do you know me?” he asks. “No,” I say. “Well, this is a residential home and I’m Wayne. I’m a bit autistic. I’m always thinking people are going to knife me. That’s no way to carry on, is it?” “No”, I say, and then add, “You should be all right at the moment, there’s nobody around”, and I set off walking again. Wayne shouts after me, “But I look all right though, don’t I?” I shout back, “Yes, you look fine!”
