A cyclist with squeaky brakes and a pair of crutches strapped to his back passed me as I walked into work.
Later, on the bus with some other men in high visibility clothing, the main topics of conversation were caravans, caravan based holidays, and the football transfer window.
I got off at the nursing home and followed the woman on the mobility scooter past the ivy-covered lamp-posts, the pink hydrangeas, the smeared dog shit and the sandwich packaging. I turned off along the terrace with no front gardens; a long row of tele’ backs and cable knots.
I turned off again, into the terrace of contrasts; a stinking dog piss accreted yard of crisp packets, expanding foam, dandelions and empty milk cartons next door to an obsessive's mini Versaille with hover flies, succulents and fancy gravels.
The clock tower struck the hour and the running man with the dog jumped over the spilt grab bag of Maltesers; neat parallel rows of chocolate beads lined up in the grate of the storm drain.
Out from the tidy side street of bungalows, the old ladies began to flock with their hair set, their trouser suits pressed, their shoes gold and their shopping bags for life. They each rounded the corner into the main road and got a wet slap in the face from the big overhanging buddleja.