The man sitting two seats in front of me on the bus was wearing 1980s suit trousers, a beige anorak, and something that looked like it could have been bird shit in his hair. He was repeatedly slapping himself about the head and face.
Behind me, the important-in-corduroy-man was begging to differ with the woman with the bag-for-life opposite, "It's not! It's gonna be another sodding Chinese! Why we need another sodding Chinese when there's already one at the bloody bottom I don't know!” he said. He went on to explain that he'd given up drinking but the woman looked sceptical.
The weather has turned over the last few weeks and they’re selling Christmas decorations at Sainsbury's and Morrison's and the dry cleaners on the ring-road is offering a “Seasonal Ugg Boot Cleaning Service”.
On the moor, acorn and oak-leaves litter the pavement next to the beagles’ kennels. There’s shattered green glass in the gutter. There are concrete lampposts (Concrete Utilities Ltd) and GPO manhole covers, and a pile of dead wood behind an ivy covered wall. There are ferns and holly, rose hips, barking dogs, and cawing crows in the top of the trees. The house with the half-dozen muddy turnips on the doorstep is being clad in pretend wood.
At the bottom end of the estate, driveways are being resurfaced with that glue-on stuff that looks like the top of a crumble—quite tasty. There are plastic lawns too, and rusty super-minis, and Octavia Hackney carriages. There are new plastic drain-grates and concrete top-stones to replace the stolen originals.