Lights flicker behind closed blinds. No one wants to see.
I reach the corner and take a deep breath, and immediately regret it as I am met with the stench of bonfires, overflowing bins.
Back down the street, my flat is cold, filthy, the music from next door never ceases. I live off beans and watered down soup.
A fox pads into view. I'd kill for a takeaway, I think. And so would it.
The seagull keeps its distance. Playing the waiting game.