Two thin young men in snapbacks and bum fluff were eating eggs in the café on Market Street, a copy of The Sun newspaper open on the table in front of them. “He paid £106,000 to look like that!” said the one in the white hat, poking his yolky knife at a picture of a semi naked man with very pronounced abdominal muscles.
“Why?” said the man in the blue hat”
“Because he’s a fucking knob”.
At the Costcutter on the other side of the road, a young woman in a polka-dot onesie, heavy make-up, drawn-on eyebrows and a big up-do was waiting outside in the drizzle with two Staffordshire bull terriers. A large truck passed, blowing over the steel Huddersfield Examiner sandwich board with a crash and the dogs yelped in surprise.
Later, out in the sticks, a pair of frogs were in amplexus on the steps of the house that once featured on TV’s Grand Designs programme and a sparrowhawk killed a wood pigeon on Mr and Mrs Mitchell’s driveway. As I crossed the road by the Conservative Club, my hat blew off and a woman under an umbrella walked into me as I bent down to retrieve it.
On the estate, the man who always wears the same baggy tracksuit bottoms and unusual cap-sleeved T-shirt said he was looking forward to some nicer weather because it puts people in a better mood and the old man in the tweed suit shouted “We’re getting posh, aren’t we?” to the Rastafarian man who was fitting some new wheel trims to his Vauxhall Astra.