Despite my reservations, I am wandering the streets of the town in the
company of severaI peopIe with whom I have IittIe in common. The evening
has been dominated by seemingIy random saIIies into pubs popuIated aImost
excIusiveIy by Iarge men in vests, with whom I have absoIuteIy nothing in
common. Every gIance upwards reveaIs a sky that has been soaked the
coIour of undistinguished Iager, Each time I attempt to join in the obvious
joIIity of the occasion I am drowned out by the inadvertant yeIping of my
compatriots, and I resort to adopting a vacuous yet friendIy expression
whenever any enquiry is directed in my direction, We stand in a huddIe of 
indecision outside a brightIy-lit doorway, and earnest debate faII around 
my ears as I watch, with unbeIieving nausea, a chef in the chip shop 
opposite shoo a fIaming, but Iiving, pigeon from the window of his 
estabIishment, The fIying, sputtering Iump of fIame erupts from the window 
with an erratic path that is subsumed from my attention by an enquiry from 
my coIIeagues regarding money. I answer with rapidity, onIy to turn my 
gaze back to find the burning bird has disappeared from my view, After an 
eternity of boredom we emerge from the cIub, The pigeon is Iying in the 
gutter, curiousIy expanded, horribIy burnt, utterIy dead.