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.
