WHERE AUTHOR’S LIVE
The daytime, term-time, mid-morning streets are peopled by old ladies with their small, disgruntled-looking dogs, which are often dressed in little tartan coats. There’s the occasional furtive youth, embarrassed and shiftless, choked by the numbing boredom that comes with truancy and dreary weather. Magpies stalk the branches of the roadside trees, crazy-eyed, shrieking insults. People with debilitating illnesses make their painful way about whatever business they can muster. Squirrels leap and scurry. Cats yawn or look disgusted. A tiny child stands beside a wall, pointing a finger at the pattern of shadows on the brickwork while its mother waits beside the buggy, the breeze blowing her hair across her face. The check-out woman stands on the pavement outside the supermarket, shivering, shifting from foot to foot, smoking a cigarette. The road sweeper leans against his cart. Circulars are delivered. Leaves tremble. The sun comes out. The sun goes in. This is where we live…