Claremont Road, clockwise, 3.35pm.

On the wide path a remote-controlled car whines. A man standing at the pub door has a car in his hands -- he wants join in, but is too shy.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 4.30pm

It is good as dark and lamps are lit, but a blackbird sings somewhere overhead, a solemn family walks the dog and a father watches his daughter on the swings.

Grove Avenue, anti-clockwise. 12noon.

On a bench under bare trees and winter sun sit a couple all in black except for her scarlet lipstick and the crimson can of coke from which he drinks.

Southerland Road, 11am. Clockwise.

A blackbird with a muddy beak flicks through leaves. He reminds me of a gentleman working down a shelf of secondhand books, taking one up, opening it, putting it back.

Anti-clockwise, starting at Southerland Road -- about 11.30am.

Fat squirrels dig for nuts in wet leaves. The wan December sun, which describes a shallow arc over The Compasses, shines through plastic bottles littering the grass making them glow.