A quiet allotment
What music looks like to the bird
We wait at the lights, only fighting when moving
Which reminds me...
Level Crossings, dirty yards
Leaving a note but not closing the door
A quiet pain, insidious
From York to Cardiff
White Hart Lane for the laughs
A Small Good Thing
She follows, wearing dark glasses and a thin knowing smile
The hot-dog vans, the corners running with piss
Boys, blackened with dust
How would it be if we new our half-time day?
Walking through Winchester
The Complex Politics of the Omelette
Why I Walk to the P.O.