As I drove up Station Road I saw a colleague on his delivery...

As I drive up Crosland Road I see a colleague being attacked by a fat black Labrador with a fluorescent green collar. He manages to protect himself with his mail pouch before kicking the dog in the head. The dog runs off and my colleague gives me the thumbs up as I pass.
At the army surplus shop, a customer asks the proprietor whether he has a hat like Michelle wore in ‘Allo ‘Allo. The proprietor says he hasn’t.

As I make my way up the front path of a house in Greenwood Street, the door opens and a large aggressive looking German shepherd runs out of it towards me. Fortunately, the dog is attached by a length of blue rope to its owner, a man in his fifties in a torn anorak. The man
is dragged down his steps and several feet up the path towards me before he regains his footing and restrains the dog. “Don’t worry”, he says, “He doesn’t bite as a rule, It’s your bag. He doesn’t like postmen or people with bags”. The dog barks and snarls and pulls the man another foot or so up the path. “When I take him down on the field I have to have a good look around to make sure there’s no one about with a bag otherwise he’ll think it’s the postman and he’ll have them.” “Oh”, I say. “Yeah, it’s just bags— and postmen. Funny, isn’t it?”

As I round the corner into Lawton Street, a young boy of about eight or nine speeds off down the hill on a BMX. Two other boys jump up and down excitedly. One of them points after the BMX boy and shouts to me, “He’s shit his pants! His bum is wet!”

11.30am: A large woman in pyjamas comes out of the shop holding a packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes and a copy of The Sun. She’s having a conver- sation via speaker-phone. She holds her phone in front of her face while she shouts into it in a southern accent: “... and then she says ‘Fuck you! It’s over! Now fuck off!’ You gotta love her, haven’t you? Anyway, don’t forget your key... Love you loads and loads... Byee!”

Half-an-hour later, I see the woman again. She’s smoking one of her Lambert and Butlers in the garden at number 17 with two other women in pyjamas.

I watch an aggressive stand-off develop between two young men. It begins
with the usual cursing and swearing but escalates into something quite unusual, ending thus: “You’re a fucking moo cow!” “You fucking moo cow!” “MOOOO COOOW!” “You’re a moo cow!” “MOOOOOOO COOOOOOOW!” “You’re a moo cow!” With that, one of the men chases the other up the road and into a house, slamming the door behind him.

I knock at the door of a house on the estate. I hear the back door open and a Border terrier runs around the corner, squats at my feet and starts pissing. I step away as the dog’s owner comes out saying, “Don’t worry love, she’ll not bother you”.

On my way into work I saw a bat, an owl, the short woman with the sweat shirt...

On my way into work, I see a bat, an owl, the short woman with the sweat- shirt and the peroxide perm who goes through the bins in the park and, on the pavement outside the Mortgage Introducer and International Flights shop on John William Street, a women’s block heeled boot.

At the house with the broken porch, a boy of about three or four is sitting on the window sill wearing nothing but a nappy and drinking milk from a baby bottle. I knock at the door and a thin woman in her forties with braces on her teeth flings it open and shouts “Toilet!” before adding, “Oh sorry love, I thought you were someone else”.

Mr Briggs intercepts me in his Suzuki Carry. He asks whether I’ve ever toured Scotland by coach. I say I haven’t. He tells me his wife saw an advert in The Examiner: “Up one side and down the other. Five hotels in a week!” Mr Briggs goes on at some length about his reservations about coach travel. “A sore arse... compulsory seat belts... steamed-up windows that you can’t see out of... the lack of decent toilet facilities... If you get sat next to a knobhead...” and so forth. “I said all this to her”, he explains, “but she’d already gone and booked it, hadn’t she? Her and Barbara had cooked it up together, hadn’t they? So the four of us went together: me, the missus and Gary and Barbara. And do you know what?” says Mr Briggs looking up at me from over his wire rims. “What?” I say. “We had a real time! It were fantastic! We’ve been another, one, two, three, four times since!” He tells me about some of the exploits they’ve had: “They’re only allowed to drive for a couple of hours at a time these days so we always have t’chance to have a coffee or a tea”. And how he’d got around the “seat belt problem”. “If you plug the belt into the thing before you get into your seat and then just sit on it, the driver’s alarm doesn’t go off. He’d had to tell me a couple of times over the tannoy before I figured that out.” Mr Briggs chuckles and does an impression of the bus driver, “Passenger number forty-four, could you fasten your belt please!” I tell Mr Briggs that I once travelled from London to Paris by coach and I found it quite tough going. I start to elaborate with an amusing anecdote from the journey but he cuts me short saying, “Anyway, I’m off to Leeds now” and he drives away".

A man is lying on his side on his asphalt driveway...

A man is lying on his side on his asphalt driveway manicuring the edge of his lawn with a pair of shears. Half his backside is showing. He rolls over onto his back to say hello.
Leylandii, berberis, box hedge and open-plan lawns. Stone built bungalows with feature arches and patio-doors, swirly carpets and telephone tables. Staffordshire ladies on the window sills. “Did you hear about the burglary two doors down? They’re on holiday. They didn’t draw their curtains, didn’t set their alarm. What did they expect?”

Rockery islands and miniature conifers. Limestone and alpines.

Locks on doors, locks on windows, locks on cars, locks on bikes, locks on sheds, locks on greenhouses, locks on gates... 

Two cars on the drive and nobody home.

Women walk the streets in fleeces and overactive Reactolites. Pulling on North Faces as it starts to drizzle. Swinging little bags of dog shit as they stride on towards Strawberry Drive in spotted Barbour wellingtons. Dragging a growling, clipped schnauzer as it tries to hold its ground. “Why are you like this with the postman? He’s usually so placid and lovely, aren’t you?” she says, without looking up.

In the week, it’s older, retired men with tucked-in shirts and side partings. They lie down underneath Range Rovers or fine-tune their lawns. They say “What’s she been ordering now?” about “the missus” who sometimes comes outside in her specs and unusually coloured hair. “Have you seen the postman?” she says as she sets down a tall glass and a

Hobnob. At the weekends it’s younger men who stand on their lawns in casual sportswear holding power tools. They say “All right mate?” while ‘the missus’, in her navy-blue polo shirt with the buttons undone, holds a spaniel by the collar. There are one or two children but they are at nursery except on Saturday when one of them gets strapped into the seat of his grandad’s Ford Focus and taken to the United game. His grandma waves him off, she already has her pinny on.

I could see a small man walking towards me in the park...

5.30am: A man is walking towards me in the park. He’s singing loudly to himself and occasionally performing a kind of shimmy. He stops to take a long drag on his cigarette, briefly looks up and notices me coming down the path. At this point, he begins to cough in what seems like a fake way and when he starts walking again, he does so with a pronounced swagger and an expressionless face.

Trizzle and N. Smith have both written their names on the May Street pouch box.

On the estate, I knock at a house to deliver a registered parcel. A man answers. He’s carrying a little boy in a duffle coat, mittens and a woollen hat, “Oh thanks, mate, that’s great, I’ve been waiting for that. Excellent!” He puts down the little boy to sign for the package and a slim women in a vest top peers around the door. Her eyes widen, “Is that your new phone? Fucking hell you jammy cunt! Mine took fucking ages. Fucking hell!”

According to the large A1 laminated poster entitled ‘The Toby Grill Hall Of Fame’, Mick has served 994 drinks and Kerry over 400 meals so far this week.

A man who looks a bit like Tony Hancock stops me in Kirkwood Drive to ask whether I know why there is so much bird muck on the roofs of the bungalows there.

A young man wearing a yellow vest, faded red boxer shorts and fluffy yellow slippers...

A young man wearing a yellow vest, faded red boxer shorts and fluffy yellow slippers is sitting on my neighbour’s front step in the rain at 5.30am.

I see a fox on Station Road.

On the bus, I overhear a man telling his companion that he shat himself in bed after drinking too many Turbo Diesels in the pub.

Mrs Shaw gives me a bag of homegrown tomatoes. She says she’s completely self-sufficient as far as tomatoes are concerned.

Dr Groves opens his front door to take his mail. “It’s a reasonable day by the looks of it”, he says.

Mr Briggs pulls up to tell me he’s off to Oldham today. He pauses, then says “Actually, I tell a lie, I’m off to the office, then to Meltham and then to Oldham. I’m working on the precinct there, it’s a right bastard to park”. That’s all he says, then he gets back into his Suzuki Carry and drives away.

At the Chartered Accountants’, a chubby white male chartered accountant with brown plastic-rimmed glasses, a white shirt and a grey suit is talking to a slim white female chartered accountant in a white shirt and a slightly lighter grey suit. “Did you get through Chapeltown all right yesterday?” asks the man. “I know! I didn’t see a single white face!” says the woman biting her lip. “I bet you didn’t want to stop at the lights did you?” “No”, says the woman, “I pushed my door locks down!” She mimes twisting around and pushing down the door lock. “Absolutely terrifying”, she says. 

Mrs Gaunt waves to me from her first floor window with a tenon saw in her hand.

Places I’ve seen the Cross of St George today: 1. Painted across the bonnet
of a white baker’s van. 2. On a flag flying from a dead tree in a garden on Manse Drive. 3. On a flag flying from the Foresters Arms pub. 4. Painted on a drain cover by the back door of a house in Cowlersley. 5. On a flag flying from what used to be The Green Cross real ale pub but is now a Sex Encounter Club with blacked out windows and plans for a sauna.

The man with the tartan Thermos, the pea-coat and the all-year-round woolly hat...

The man with the tartan Thermos, the pea-coat and the all-year-round woolly hat has started crossing the road when he sees me. We pass each other at 6am every morning and he’s often the only other person I see as I walk into work. After a few weeks of ignoring each other, I let on and said “Morning”. He didn’t reply. As time went by and I persisted, he started to respond but never seemed very comfortable with it. His eyes would start flickering nervously at me from about twenty yards away, I’d say “Morning” and he’d emit an awkward choking sound accompanied by a twitchy sideways glance. Now he crosses the road and keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement.

A man in a hooded North Face jacket, elaborately top-stitched jeans and Nike trainers is smoking a cigarette and fiddling with a Blackberry on the steps at the entrance to the flats. I say hello as I approach, assuming he’ll move across so I can get past. He doesn’t. He doesn’t respond or even glance up. I squeeze through, my bag scraping against
his knee, but he still doesn’t move or acknowledge my presence in any way. When I come out of the flats ten minutes later, the man is still there, smoking another cigarette and thumbing his Blackberry. I say hello again, he looks up, squints, pulls on his cigarette and looks down again.

Two overweight men in their thirties are talking as they walk past me on Ings Way, “I bet I fucking could”, says one. “I bet you fucking couldn’t”, says the other. “I bet I fucking could.” “You fucking couldn’t.” “I fucking could.” “You fucking couldn’t.” “I bet I fucking could...”

A woman in flat shoes and a very full skirt stops me in the street to tell me she’s been to the ninetieth birthday party of her pianist, “I’m in the choir at the Methodist. The cake was in the shape of a grand piano. It was sponge but it was lovely and moist”.

While I was opening the pouch box on Heatherfield Road...

While I’m opening the pouch box on Heatherfield Road, an old man at the bus stop comments on my bunch of keys, “You’ve plenty of keys there”, he says.

As I’m posting the mail at the Baptist church a young man in a hooded top starts shouting something to me from the other side of the street. I can’t hear him above the noise of the traffic so he shouts again. I still can’t hear so he shouts a third time. And a fourth. I still can’t hear, so he shouts again. I still can’t hear. I go to the very edge of my pavement and he goes to his. He shouts at the top of his voice over the top of the traffic “HE ONLY GETS HOLY MAIL YOU KNOW!” “OH!” I shout back.

Inside the council flats, the window cleaner is talking to an elderly woman. She tells him she’s not been well. “I’ve been here, there and everywhere at the hospital and they can’t fathom what it is.” “Oh dear, there’s always summat in’t there?” says the window cleaner. The woman continues, “Now they’re reckoning it might be Parkinson’s disease so I’m going to have to go for tests for that now too”. “Oh dear, there’s always summat in’t there?”
says the window cleaner again. “Oh, but it is painful in my hands.” “There’s always summat in’t there?” “I can’t even do the washing it’s so painful.” “There’s always summat.” “But I always like to say to myself ‘There’s always someone worse off, isn’t there?’” “Oh dear, there’s always summat in’t there. See you next time love.” The window cleaner leaves the building and shoutsup to his colleague who is cleaning windows on the first floor, “Jesus-God- Alive! I feel like slitting my wrists when I’ve gone in there! It’s your turn next time!”

“Oh Septimus! Oh dear! I told you to go before we came out! Oh dear”

“Oh, Septimus! Oh dear! I told you to go before we came out! Oh dear”, says the woman in the twin set and obvious wig to her King Charles spaniel.

Howard says he shot a rat at 6.30 this morning. He says he’s pleased to have got the bugger at last but his neighbours complained about the noise. At Slack Farm, Mr Haigh comes out of the milking shed carrying a coat at arm’s length. The lining is torn out and It’s completely covered in shit and straw. “Fucking cows have had us coat. They’re a set of bastards” he says. “Eurgh! That’s had it now, hasn’t it?” I say. “Aye, normal folk would chuck it away. I’m gonna wash it.” I follow him up to his front door with his mail, past the tractor with the mature ragwort growing out from under the seat and the neat row of four dead moles laid out on the garden wall. Mr Haigh tells me that moles have a very keen sense of smell and hands like people. “If you smell of fags or booze when you lay the traps you’ll not catch any.”

At the Community Health Centre, the receptionist bursts out through the doors into the car park and vomits next to a Honda Civic.

Back at the office, I see Irfan. He’s been off work for a couple of weeks and when I ask why he tells me he’s been stabbed.

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.

I found this note on the street on the way into work...

I find a note in the street on my way into work. It’s written in marker pen on a sheet of A4 paper. It’s the third I’ve found bearing this message in the last six months: ‘Iranian intelligence officers lick English Arse’.

Bob is back at work after a week off. I ask whether he’s had a good time and he tells me his dog ate his Yorkshire pudding in a café in Grassington.

Twice today, I’ve been asked for directions to the Spiritualist church.

At County Foods, I hand my paperwork to the receptionist and she fills in her signature while talking on the phone, “I’ve got this guy on hold, he’s ringing from a café in Batley. He’s on about black puddings...” Suddenly, a large dog jumps up from behind the desk

and starts barking at me, its front paws on the sill of the service hatch. The receptionist puts down the phone and drags the dog back down by its collar. A tall man in a suit leans in through an adjoining door and gives her a quizzical look. “Don’t ask”, she says. “Is it a guard dog?” says the tall man. “It’s guarding me from the likes of you, Alan” says the receptionist.

The chubby assistant with the heavy foundation and the glittery bits on her face at the newsagent’s tells her colleague about her unfaithful boyfriend. “He said she looked better

from a distance than close to but he still knobbed her, didn’t he? He’s got a picture of it on his phone!”