I walked into work in the slipstream of a man who...

I walked into work in the slipstream of a man who was smoking strong weed and listening to Chaka Demus and Pliers without headphones. As we walked through the Market Place, a splay footed drunkard wearing the remains of a tuxedo shouted "HELLO!" to us both from the steps of Headrow Furnishers.

Two women in their seventies were discussing custard tart:

"It was lovely; I had the custard tart", said the tallish one with the mid-calf length floral-print pleated skirt and the Summer Wine perm.

"Ooh, I do love custard tart", said the shortish one with the mid-calf length floral-print pleated skirt and the Summer Wine perm.

"My mother used to make the best custard tart—lovely thin pastry." Said the tallish one.

"Lovely. My husband says he doesn't care how thick the pastry is!" Said the shortish one, eyebrows outraged.

"Well, that's it you see: men don't mind so much about the pastry. All they're interested in is the custard. All men love custard."

"That's true. Whenever we go anywhere the men always go for the custard option. It's a schoolboy thing I think."

"You're right."

At the house with the balloons tied to the gate posts, the builders were swearing on the roof. I counted seven fuckings and a bastard in the time it took for the young mum to walk her two toddlers up the driveway to the front door for the birthday party.

In her garden on Meadow Way, an old woman in a dressing gown...

In her garden on Hart Street, an old woman in a dressing gown empties a jug of custard onto her borders.

A young man with his hand down the front of his trousers and a bloody nose is talking to a man in a snapback cap, “Drop them two off,” he says, gesturing to two young women with low-cut tops and large breasts in the back of a P-reg’ VW Golf, “then we’ll go into town and get wired”.

Later, in the park, I see another man with a bloody nose. He’s talking to a tree.

A squirrel carries a Wagon Wheel (the chocolate kind) across Wren Street.